Quiet Girl
by Sleepy Lotus
Summary: Daria and Jane have returned from college for the summer, and Trent is intrigued by the changes found in both his little sister and her best friend. TrentDaria fic.
1. Home Sweet Home

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em, just write about 'em

1. Home Sweet Home

Trent lazily opened one eye to glance at his clock, reading 2:30. An ungodly hour, and entirely too early to wake up naturally. What had woken him? A faint inkling of voices drifted through his closed door, perking his interest. Who was in the house? Janey wasn't due home for another day. He then realized that that had been true, yesterday.

Excited to have his lil' sis back in the house, Trent dressed more quickly than usual. That is at a sloth's pace, as opposed to a snail's. Walking down the hall he listened carefully, curious who the second voice belonged to. Ah, of course. He recognized Daria's voice.

"Now that all the boxes are hauled in, I say we splurge for an afternoon on the town. Mom gave me a twenty that has pizza pie written all over it."

"This starving artist can't argue."

Trent peered into the living room to see the two girls standing amidst piles of moving boxes. He then did a double take, noticing college seemed to have done a number on both of their appearances. Janey had let her hair grow out, it now swung down past her shoulders. She'd kept the red and black shirts, but replaced her shorts and tights with a pair of paint splattered jeans. However, it was Daria who held his attention. Of course, the boots and glasses stayed, although she'd traded in her owl-like specs for a pair of sleek black square frames. They went well with her dark jeans and black sleeveless top. Daria showing her arms? He'd always thought she was pretty. Now…she looked hot.

Jane noticed Trent standing at the doorway of the living room, listening in. "Trent!"

He found himself at the surprised receiving end of an energetic embrace. "Hey Janey," he said, gladly returning the hug. "Glad you're home."

Attention turned in Daria's direction, who watched amusedly from the sidelines. "Hey."

"Hey Trent."

"No hug?"

Daria shrugged noncommittally, giving that odd half smile of hers. It was good to see her smile.

"We're going for pizza," said Jane. "Want to join?"

"Sure."


	2. All Hail Pizza King

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em, just write about 'em

2. All Hail Pizza King

Trent was tempted to slide into the seat next to Daria at Pizza King, but chose to drop down next to Janey at the last minute. While they waited for their pie the two girls told him all about their adventures at college, from Daria starting an underground newspaper at Raft to counter the censorship of the school-directed publication, to Jane being offered a wall of space at a small art gallery just off campus. He was surprised to hear that Jane had entertained quite a personal life as well at art school, leaving six boyfriends behind in the dust over the course of the entire school term. Trent expressed this extreme surprise with a lazy rise of two eyebrows.

When elbowed about her own personal life by her best friend, Daria merely shrugged, saying no one at Raft had caught her interest. Trent gave his signature cough, hiding a slight smile. If the rich intelligent boys at Raft didn't measure up, what kind of chance did he think he had? The pie came to their table, and he declined to dwell on the subject any longer.

While masticating a delicious slice of pepperoni pizza, Daria nearly spit it out again at seeing the new arrival through the parlor door. He immediately walked over to their table, hands in his khaki pants pockets. "Hey Daria. Jane. Trent."

Daria swallowed her pizza, but she couldn't help but feel it was sticking in the back of her throat. "Hi Tom."

"Hey Tom," was the unenthusiastic reply from both Lanes. That is to say, enthusiasm was sparsely found on that side of their gene pool, but even for them the greeting seemed on the colder side.

"Did you just get back from college?"

"Just today, actually." Daria determined that she would be the one conducting most of the conversation, judging by the bored expressions of the Lanes.

"That's cool. I got back a couple weeks ago. We get out early, so it's been boring waiting for my friends come back to Lawndale." Daria nodded. Oh, you poor lonely soul, she thought to herself, positive he'd found plenty amusement in video games and books at home. "I called your house, and your Mom said you'd probably be here."

"I'll have sue my PR agent for letting vital details slip now," quipped Daria, picking up another slice. She made a gesture, offering Tom a piece, but her declined.

Tom laughed, albeit a little nervously. He knew the first year of college had changed them all, and wasn't sure what kind of greeting he would receive from his two ex-girlfriends. Of course they would be together, joined at the hip wherever they went around Lawndale.

"So I was wondering, do you want to get together sometime soon to compare notes, like we talked about last year?"

Daria could hear the nervousness in her ex's voice. It made her feel better about her own butterflies wreaking havoc in her stomach. "Sure," she agreed, in her characteristic near-monotone. "That would be good."

A slow breath of relief escaped Tom. "Great. The movie theater's having a late night double feature tomorrow, two foreign vampire films. Want to go?"

Daria smiled slightly. Foreign vampire films. It was right up her alley. Jane's too, but she didn't think Tom would want her tagging along. "Alright. It sounds like fun."

Tom nodded, smiling down at her. "Ok. I'll call you tomorrow with details." Daria nodded as well, hoping she hadn't gotten herself into a mess. Tom found himself fighting a sudden compulsion to lean down and kiss Daria, but it came as no surprise. The entire second semester at Bromwell he found he couldn't stop thinking about his ex. Their parting hadn't exactly been closed ended. It was only after being with the sorority flakes and party oafs weekend after weekend did he remember and finally truly appreciate her sharp mind. At that point he couldn't be exactly sure, but he had suspicions that he was still in love with her. This time, he didn't want to screw it up.

He waved goodbye to the trio, and headed for the door. Daria watched him go, thinking an old thought. Coming or going, Tom was a cute boy. She then mentally cursed herself. Mess indeed, Morgandorfer.

Trent felt his eyes narrowing as he watched Tom Sloane depart from their table. He'd noticed the surprise in Daria's eyes, and even if for a split second, the uncharacteristic moment of softness in her expression when he'd asked her to go to the double feature tomorrow night. It had been a while since Trent last felt that slow simmering heat curl in the pit of his stomach. He recognized the feeling as jealousy.

After the drama between she, Daria, and Tom, and all the pain caused to all parties, Jane didn't exactly understand why their paths still remained intertwined. She didn't hate Tom, but at that point, she didn't exactly like him either. Sighing to herself, she reached for another slice. Only time would tell if this summer would turn into another dramatic fiasco, or be a quiet, much desired period of downtime to watch Sick, Sad World.


	3. Ze Life Dariatique

3. Ze Life Dariatique

"So what should we do tonight, Morgandorfer?" asked Jane as they walked through the front door of the Lane residence.

"Damned if I know," said Daria. They collapsed on the couch, both exhausted from the long moving day. Trent smiled at the two girls, and silently walked back to his room. Strangely he didn't feel like sleeping, so he picked up his acoustic guitar.

"Let's stay in tonight," suggested Jane. "We can have a movie night."

Daria nodded. "Sounds good. I don't really want to face the parents' enthusiasm until tomorrow anyway."

It was settled. They stayed up watching Napoleon Dynamite and The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou.

Through his cracked door Trent swore he heard the Backstreet Boys playing. Worried and intrigued, he set down his guitar to investigate. He found the two girls watching Summer's sign language skit on Napoleon Dynamite. "He's alive!" exclaimed Jane upon seeing her brother, having assumed he'd fallen asleep again.

Trent smiled slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh…yeah. I heard this, and thought maybe aliens broke in and were playing 90's pop. Scary."

"That suddenly explains my sister's fascination with Boys 2 Guys," remarked Daria, who would be utterly unsurprised if Quinn indeed was an alien.

"Want to watch?" invited Jane, offering her bro a seat on the couch next to Daria. Crossing the room with a few slow strides of his long legs, Trent plopped down. Daria noticed herself subconsciously sitting up straighter, and the immediate sweat on her palms that had plagued her during her high school crush years with any interaction with Trent.

Pull yourself together, Morgandorfer, she scolded herself, allowing herself to slouch back into the soft sofa again. She inconspicuously wiped her palms on her jeans, and took a deep breath, deciding to enjoy the innocent pleasure of the scent of Trent sitting next to her. His personal aroma was a medley of several things, none of them unpleasant. The two most prominent she recognized was the comforting, familiar smell of the Lane household, and sandalwood incense. There were some other natural, herbal factors as well she couldn't place her finger on. By herbal, she didn't mean pot.

Trent slouched farther into the couch, causing his knee to brush Daria's. From the sudden electricity she felt at that one simple touch, it took everything she had to not jump up off of the couch, as a younger Daria may have done. Through the corner of her eye, she studied her best friend's brother. His hair was sleep tousled, partly falling down into his dark eyes. Three silver earrings still glittered in his ear. Her eyes followed his jaw line down to rest on his thin lips, prone to stay in a flat-line bored expression, but beautiful when he smiled.

Trent, like Jane, was one of those people who was naturally skinny, and probably always would be. His narrow shoulders and flat chest tapered down into a thin waist. Even the tattoos on his wiry arms didn't turn her off, as they did on most other people. They were all apart of Trent, all that was so perfectly Trent. She'd thought she'd moved on from him, thinking her attraction had simply been a high school infatuation. Sitting next to him on the couch she realized she'd only taken a break. Here we go again, Morgandorfer.


	4. Like Minds

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em, just write about 'em

4. Like Minds

Tom picked Daria up the next evening around six. She found his parents had also towed his latest junker car, causing him to borrow the keys to his mother's Audi. Mrs. Sloane didn't mind, wanting Tom to make a good new start with Daria. She was such a sensible girl; Mrs. Sloane felt her to be a good influence on her boy from day one. She even wouldn't have minded bringing that Morgendorffer under the Sloane name as a daughter in law; maybe the couple wasn't thinking along those lines, but time would pass more quickly than they realized. It was a concept hard for youth to grasp.

Daria raised an eyebrow at the Audi, but let it go, figuring the last one had been impounded. Probably for the best safety interests of all drivers on the road. Tom wanted to surprise his old girlfriend with something new, instead of the same old Pizza King pies. She concealed it well, but Daria found herself subject to an interesting surprise when they pulled into the parking lot of Chez Pierre. Once upon a time, she would have felt uneasy with the thought of even stepping near the place. Now, she only felt bored. Boston had that effect on one's personality.

"I hope you like escargot," said Tom, holding out his arm for Daria. She declined to take it, pretending that she hadn't noticed the offer.

"Who can resist gastropods fried in garlic butter?" she asked, leaving Tom questioning her sincerity. Always with Daria, he had trouble reading her moods. Most of the time it was refreshing to spend time with someone who shared his sarcastic outlook on life. However, sometimes he felt Daria talked the talk all too well, and often felt he was at the indirect receiving end of her sarcasm.

She was one of the few women whose opinion he cared about, and strangely always felt under the microscope when with her, no matter how subtle her snarky wit. Daria kept Tom on his toes. Not long ago, he realized that was part of her appeal. She challenged him, and kept him guessing, without even meaning to.

Over dinner they compared their notes, as promised. Nothing too monumental caught Daria's ear in Tom's life, although she listened intently. Strange as it may have been, it was good to hear his voice. Perhaps because it was familiar territory.

However, there was something just under the surface about her ex that threw Daria. She couldn't quite put her finger on it at the moment, but it almost seemed tricky. Illusive. They both had undergone their changes during the first year of college. It would happen again next year, and the year after that, and so forth. Humans mistakenly view themselves as unchanging creatures, when indeed transitions constantly shift and slide personality and condition.

It wasn't until the end of dinner that Daria identified that which inspired her confusion with Tom. Although not yet completely transformed, he'd become a smooth talker. He'd sunk into that old-money charm and sickness, that consuming confidence that money and a polite winning smile could fix nearly anything.

She noticed it when he insisted on taking the check for dinner. She noticed it when he smiled at her. And the straw that broke the camel's back? Tom winked at her, as if she were some drunken sorority girl just waiting for the light to turn green. It was at that moment Daria decided not to trust him anymore. On the inside, the loss saddened her.

The boy couldn't have made matters more confusing for Daria if he'd tried. During the movie they shared their sarcastic comments, cutting apart the cheesy lines and acting, as if no time had passed at all between them. It was as if he'd slipped back into his old skin, the Tom Daria knew and had loved. What if he could act himself all the time, she asked herself? Then summer could hold much fun for them. There were simply too many variables to solve. Luckily patience came easily to Daria.

Tom dropped Daria off around midnight, and insisted on walking her to the door. They stood across from each other on the stoop, both uneasy, but for different reasons. "I had fun, Tom," said Daria finally. "Thanks."

"No, thank you. I'm glad I got to see you tonight." Tom looked down at her, searching her expression for any hint of…anything. But as usual, she kept her emotions under lock and key, so he kept talking. "Can we do it again sometime soon?"

Daria nodded silently, asking herself if she was getting herself into a mess. "That would be nice."

Tom smiled appreciatively. It would be nice, to be with someone he viewed as an intellectual equal again. Someone worthy, someone even his parents approved of. That had never before been an issue for him, but now? It seemed vaguely important. They'd both grown so much over the past year…Raft had sharpened her mind to an even deadlier point, and she looked amazing. Daria's old garb had never really bothered Tom; it wasn't important. But now, it didn't seem fair. How could anyone sane stand a chance against her? Maybe a little exaggeration, but not much, as far as he was concerned.

It was the anticipation of the bright future that gave Tom the courage for his next action: he leaned down to steal a kiss. Their lips barely brushed before Daria jerked back, both surprised and unwilling to leap to that step again so soon. He laughed softly, holding hands up in a sign of retreat. "I'm sorry, it was an impulse."

"I'm not ready for that again yet, Tom."

He nodded, concealing the feeling of bitter disappointment he felt weighing on his chest. The memory of her soft full lips haunted him; she would never know how much he enjoyed kissing her. "I can see that," he said. "That's alright. Besides, I should have known better. We weren't in a car." He flashed that new smile, the one Daria felt so alien in his repertoire of expressions. It was meant to smooth things over with women. It failed beautifully on Daria.

Daria turned to go inside her house. "I'll see you later, Tom," she said, cracking the door.

"Ok, I'll catch you later. Sweet dreams."

Daria paused, but finally answered, "You too."

_We weren't in a car._

Daria resented that sarcastic remark. Maybe she deserved it, although she didn't exactly think so. A medley of confusing thoughts swam around her head, the same as clashing emotions gripped her chest and terrorized her stomach. What exactly had she gotten herself into? She decided she needed a like mind to sort things out with. None resided within her house.

Once sure that Tom was long gone, Daria headed back out the door and down the street.


	5. The Koi, the Lotus, and the Cynic

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! J

5. The Koi, the Lotus, and the Cynic

Daria tried the doorknob to the Lane residence, not surprised to find it unlocked. Outside factors didn't seem to affect the Lanes, like burglars, or steady employment. Strangely, she admired that bohemian attitude.

Letting herself in, she noticed the kitchen light was on, but heard no one beyond the doorway. Deciding Trent or Jane had just accidentally left it on, she padded quietly up to Jane's room. Blue moonbeams guided her way; Daria knew the house well enough to not need harsh electric light.

It didn't take long standing in Jane's room for Daria to realize she wasn't there. The bed remained mused from a previous night's sleep. Narrowing her eyes at the empty bed she'd so hoped would contain her best friend, Daria cursed under her breath.

Deciding to go home and try back in the morning, Daria turned on her heel to leave. However, she didn't get far, and nearly screamed out of extreme surprise, when she walked right into Trent's chest. Somehow, she hadn't even heard him walk up behind her in the silent household.

"Whoa, Daria," said Trent, noting her startled expression in the moonlit room. He'd grabbed her shoulders to make sure she wouldn't fall, but quickly released her. The fleeting touch lasted long enough to taunt him with her soft skin, Daria wearing yet another sleeveless shirt.

"I was hoping to find Jane," explained Daria. "I really need to talk to her." She and Trent still stood nearly cheek to jowl. As she gave her explanation Daria dragged her fingers through her hair, flipping her scent up towards Trent's nostrils. He enjoyed it without shame, inhaling the sweet scent with a breath. Vanilla, and something else sweet. It was nice.

"She's out with a guy she met today at the art store. I heard someone come through the door, and thought you were Jane. I need her too." Trent turned his head to the side to cough softly. "I was waiting up in the kitchen. You can wait with me if you want. I doubt she'll be much longer."

Daria nodded. "Ok."

Trent glanced at her one last time in the moonlight, before stepping back and leading the way towards the kitchen.

"So how did your thing go with Tom?" he asked, trying to take his mind off the way her pale skin glowed in the moonlight, her vanilla scented hair, and the way he'd felt suddenly cold when stepping away from her body heat in Jane's room. Making himself jealous, listening to Daria talk about Tom, was one way to do that. Perhaps a little masochistic, but it seemed necessary. Little sister's best friend or not, Daria had always piqued his interest. It seemed her going away for an academic year at college didn't change that.

Daria sat down across from Trent at the kitchen table, and sighed heavily. "That's what I wanted to talk to Jane about. I think I need a good sound slap in the face before I do something I might regret."

Trent nodded, ignoring the sharp feeling in his chest that felt vaguely reminiscent of a stabbing blade. "You still have feelings for him, huh?"

Daria thought about it, truly considering the question, weighing it out best she could. Finally, she answered to the best of her ability, judging the situation with what she could at the moment. "No, I don't think I do. That's the confusing part. I think I'm just remembering the good times we had last year, and I guess some part of me wants to recreate that. But really, I know things will never be the same again. He tried to kiss me tonight, but I didn't let him. There was no new spark."

Trent looked across the table at Daria, wondering why she needed Jane, when it seemed she'd just sorted her feelings out by herself. "It happens that way sometimes. At least you know now that you probably won't recreate that spark. It took Monique and I about a million tries before we realized that."

Daria nodded. "Yeah. It happens. He's changed now too. I don't really exactly trust him anymore."

Trent found this interesting. "Why?"

"I'm not sure," Daria answered honestly. She liked this: being able to speak honestly with someone, not worried about being judged. She realized that maybe Trent was a better person to talk to about Tom than Jane, after their fiasco last year. "There's just…something. I don't like it."

He shrugged, respecting her judgment. "You don't give your trust easily. I guess if you have a gut feeling, go with it." Trent realized it could sound like he was trying to trash an opponent, if Daria had known about the odd little sensation she inspired for him, right in the back of his mind. He couldn't really pinpoint the feeling, but he could definitely feel the buzz, and hoped he wouldn't be kicking himself later for it.

Daria soon noticed the interesting accoutrements spread across the table. A bottle of anti-bacterial soap, a bowl and washcloth, a box of bandages, and a small unlabeled plastic cup of a clear jelly-like substance. "What's all this for?" she asked, gesturing towards his collection.

Trent leaned his head on his hand, and surveyed the assortment. "This is what I need Janey for. She said she'd help me bandage my new tattoo. I can't reach it myself."

She had never seen a brand-new tattoo, and found herself to be intrigued. Trent's body art fascinated her¾he was like a walking canvas. Maybe his arm tattoo did say "I got this tattoo out of a magazine", but they were none the less interesting to look at.

"If you tell me what to do, I can help you with it," offered Daria. She figured it had to be somewhere on his back, if he couldn't reach it. Trent was surprised that she offered; for a long time Daria had bordered along the edge of prude. He supposed that college changed that too, although he doubted much.

"Cool," Trent agreed, standing to get some hot water from the tap in his plastic bowl. "It's not hard," he promised. You just have to be careful with it. I trust you."

He set the bowl down on the table, and peeled off his shirt. Daria blinked, but managed not to let her mouth gape. A younger Daria would have blushed and bolted from the room. The new Daria found herself admiring his bare chest, but still nervous from the thought of actually touching him. Trent sat down, with his back towards her. "You can peel the bandage off. Just go slow, to make sure none of it is sticking to the tattoo. It could tear off the skin."

"Lovely," commented Daria, stepping up to the plate. After peeling away the bandage, she was perplexed by the treasure found under the rock. Where she'd expected to see an angry bloody scab where needles had pierced his skin thousands of times, instead she clearly observed an orange Koi carp curled around a blue and lavender lotus blossom. It was a lovely tattoo. The skin around it was slightly red and irritated, and the skin puckered and raised around the black outlines, but it was nothing like what she'd expected.

"Is something wrong?" asked Trent, curious why she'd stood so still looking at his shoulder for so long.

"No, I don't think so," said Daria. "I'm just looking at it. This is a beautiful tattoo, Trent." Most men would be afraid to get something so delicate inked onto their skin. It wasn't exactly feminine, although it could have rested just as at home under the skin of a woman. It was simply…lovely.

"Janey drew it for me," he explained. "So do you know what this one means?"

Trent glanced over his shoulder at Daria with a wry smile, curious what she would say. "Um…I got this tattoo from my sister?" He coughed with his laugh, amused.

"That too. The koi is an eastern symbol for courage and perseverance. The lotus signifies purity, prosperity, and longevity."

"Ah. A metaphor tat for the band?"

"It could be."

Daria thought of another metaphor for the tattoo. Trent was like a koi in his own right, swimming around in his own pond, oblivious to much of the world around him. Reality is only a definition of one's perception. He had his music, his band, and Jane; and he seemed to be entirely content with his life. In a way, she envied his simplicity.

Trent proceeded to tell Daria how to wash the tattoo with soap, being ever so gentle with slow circles of the pads of her fingers. At that brand-new stage just a stray fingernail could chip the fragile skin and mar the tattoo. She then rinsed it, patting it with the warm water, then patting it dry with a towel.

Next came that mysterious cup of jelly-substance, which he identified as A & P gel, which was used to protect the tattoo from outside interferences while it healed. Daria found that she enjoyed running her fingers over the tattoo; she'd never felt anything else with the same interesting texture.

Trent also enjoyed the sensation of her fingers moving in slow circles over his shoulder blade. The tattoo was sore and had already begun to itch, and her cool fingers on his skin was soothing. He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling, knowing it might possibly never happen again. She'd placed her left hand on his arm to steady herself. That too felt nice. It had been awhile since he'd felt the weight of another human being against his skin, excepting Jane's now frequent hugs.

Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Trent watched Daria as she concentrated on her work, carefully taping a new bandage back into place. Over the past year she'd grown out her bangs; they now fell over her eyes now and then, and she would toss her head, throwing them out of the way. Yeah, he thought to himself, she's definitely hot.

Once she was done, Trent didn't bother to pull back on his shirt. He saw little point in it, considering he would be going to bed soon anyways. "You can spend the night here, and catch Jane in the morning," he offered. "It's late to walk home."

Daria shrugged, not exactly worried about the late night riff-raff of Lawndale. It mostly consisted of raccoons, and maybe an alley cat or two. "I'll be fine walking home. I think I've sorted everything out in my head anyways. Thanks for helping me with that."

Trent nodded, thinking that he'd gotten the better end of the deal, in the end. "Anytime. I'll walk with you."

"You don't have to do that."

Trent laughed slightly, and coughed into his hand. Once upon a time, a nocturnal creep might have passed Daria up, for simple fear of her kick-ass boots. Now, there was no way he wanted her to walk home alone. "It's a nice night. It'll be fun."


	6. Hands On Henna

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! I didn't realize I wasn't accepting anonymous reviews before, so now that's been fixed. Thanks again for reading.

6. Hands on Henna

Daria found her mother and sister to be driving her insane already. It seemed a bit early in the season to want to lock herself away in her padded room and never come out though, so she settled for escaping to the Lane household.

Jane answered the front door. "Hey," she greeted with a smile. Daria immediately noticed a strange, but interesting herbal smell wafting through the portal. "You're just in time, Morgandorfer. Reese and I are playing with henna. Want to be the next victim?"

Daria blinked, wary of her friend's word choice. "Where did you get henna?"

"Reese had some. Its his business."

A more essential question came to mind. "Alright, so who is Reese?"

Jane smiled, a slight curl of lips. On her the expression was a bit wicked, which befitted her. "Reese is my new friend. I met him at the art store yesterday. That's who I was out with last night."

"Ah."

"I heard from Trent that you stopped by?"

"Trent was awake enough to relay information when you got home?"

Jane shrugged. "We walked in the door about the same time."

Daria nodded, realizing she'd just missed Jane last night, if Trent intercepted her returning from their late-night walk home. "So did you have fun with Trent's tattoo?" asked Jane, with a mischievous lilt in her voice Daria didn't exactly like.

"Um…it's a nice tattoo. You did a nice job designing it."

"Not exactly what I meant, but thanks."

Daria sighed, and then noticed the mud-like paste on Jane's hand. "Is that henna?" she asked.

Jane held up her hand to display the dark design drawn across it. "Yeah. It goes on like this for about an hour, and soaks into the skin. When it crusts off it leaves behind an orange stain, and then it turns brown. Doesn't it smell great?"

It was certainly a unique smell, and Daria liked it. "It's interesting."

Jane nodded towards the kitchen. "Come on. I want you to meet Reese."

Reese sat at the kitchen table, concentrating on tooling out a design on the palm of his hand. When the girls entered he sat up from his work, smiling brightly. "Hi."

"Hey," replied Daria, sizing up her friend's latest catch. He was cute in a dorky sort of way, with short curly brown hair, blue eyes, a sweet face and bushy eyebrows. She could see why Jane would like him.

"I would offer to shake hands," he said, "But they're kinda covered right now."

"That's alright, I'll forgive you this once."

Jane and Daria sat down, and Daria watched the two artists, intrigued. "So where do you get this stuff?"

"I order it online," answered Reese. "I conduct a henna business, for parties and such. It's the new face painting. Well, hand painting, I suppose. It pays great."

Daria nodded, impressed. Henna wasn't a bad hobby, compared to the last one, who enjoyed dressing in 50s garb and cutting a rug in underground dance clubs.

"Give me your hand, Daria. We're going to draw on you."

The alarmed eyebrow raised. "I don't think that's¾"

Jane grabbed Daria's hand, and the protests ended there. Daria submitted to their artistic visions for her skin, and didn't really mind. It wasn't long before her entire left hand, palm and all, was covered in flowers and other various designs. The henna tingled as it dried and soaked into her skin.

Suddenly Jane slammed the day's newspaper down on the kitchen table, causing both Reese and Daria to jump with surprise. Jane lifted the yellow plastic covered journal to reveal a squashed cockroach about the size of Daria's little finger. "Damn bugs," cursed Jane, snatching up a paper towel to clean up the mess. "That reminds me, Daria. Mom and Dad scheduled to have this place bug bombed in a couple days. Can Trent and I crash with you until it's made habitable again?"

Daria silently gulped at the thought of Trent sleeping under her roof again, but she nodded yes. "I'll run it by mom, but I'm sure it'll be fine. You guys are always welcome."

"Don't think we don't appreciate it."

To pass the time waiting for their henna to settle in, the trio watched Sick, Sad, World for an hour. Once it began to crack they brushed off the paste into the trash can, and treated their orange-stained skin with olive oil to make the tattoo brighter.

"I'm hungry," said Jane. "We hardly have anything in here to eat. Pizza sound good?"

Both Reese and Daria agreed. Jane went up to her room to get some money, and Reese followed, leaving Daria to wait alone in the kitchen. After some time passed, Daria was led to believe that the two new love birds found something else to distract themselves with besides finding cash for lunch.

"What's that smell?"

Daria turned to see Trent in the doorway in just his torn jeans, hair tousled from sleep. "Henna," she answered, holding up her hand for display. "Jane's new beaux apparently has a knack for it."

Trent surveyed the bottles and olive oil on the table along with his tattoo cleaning kit, and scratched the back of his head. "Cool." Daria almost jumped out of her skin when he unexpectedly took her hand, studying her new skin art. He held her hand gently in his, lightly tracing the orange lines of the henna with his fingertips. The moment he touched her Daria's heart jumpstarted to warp-speed from a phenomenal adrenaline kick. "Nice ink," he commented.

"Jane's good," was all Daria could think to say, held captive by the shooting sensations dancing up her arm from Trent's fingertips. Involuntarily, her fingers curled as he explored her skin. Daria fought not to flip out, and to hide how very good it felt to have Trent take such an interest in the delicate nerves of her hand. She broke when he turned her hand over, studying the flower blooming across her palm. A caress across the petal with his guitar string-callused finger sent a thrill down her spine, and a slight shudder through her frame.

Daria drew her hand away, muttering a weak excuse of, "Chill." By the look in Trent's dark eyes, she didn't think he exactly believed her. Before either of them could say anything more, Jane and Reese entered the room. "Up before three PM? What is this madness?" asked Jane, noticing her brother standing shirtless in the kitchen with Daria.

Trent shrugged slightly, careful not to jar his new tattoo. "Had to wake up sometime, I guess."

Jane shrugged, nearly identical to her brother. "Can't beat that logic. Reese, this is my brother Trent. Trent, Reese."

They exchanged complex greetings of "Yo" and "Hey".

"Ready to go, Daria?" asked Jane.

Daria momentarily glanced at Trent before answering, "Sure."

Daria was barely present as they munched their pizza, a fact which Jane noticed. It left her to wonder what had happened between Daria and her brother before they walked in. There had been a certain look on the pair's faces that she couldn't exactly plant her finger on. Jane certainly hadn't interrupted them sucking face, that was for damn sure. So what the hell was going on? Curious, she decided to ask Daria next time they were alone.


	7. Moving Camp

A/N: Thank you for the reviews, readers! If you love tattoos (which I do, much to my mother's chagrin J ), henna is an awesome and beautiful art form to investigate. Just make sure its natural henna (brown/red), and not black. Black henna could have a dangerous hair dye in it that could infect the hair follicles of your skin and leave behind a nasty scar.

7. Moving Camp

A few days later, Daria sat spinning back and forth in her computer chair mindlessly, terrified. Jane and Trent would arrive soon as the exterminators constructed the bug-bomb tent around their home. Jane sleeping over? Not a problem. Trent sleeping over? Not exactly a problem either, although decidedly more stressful.

What had changed between them? Physical contact, for one. Before she'd always admired from afar, but never touched Trent, and he never touched her. Now if she closed her eyes she swore she could still feel his fingertips sliding over her skin, or feel the bare skin of his back under her hands. And the way he'd looked at her after her body betrayed her with that shudder? He knew she'd liked it. He'd taken a big chance, touching her, knowing she shied from physical contact with anyone. Ever.

Pull it together, Daria! Scolding herself, she stood from her chair, stretching her limbs. It can only be as big of a fiasco as you make it, she reminded herself. Oh boy. This could be monumental, she thought, just before walking downstairs to answer the ringing doorbell.

"I noticed a bug tent over the Lane's house," said Tom, picking up a slice of pizza. It being Daria's turn to pick their place of dining, she chose good simple Pizza King. It was familiar territory.

"They're in the middle of thwarting a hostile-takeover of insects. You know something's wrong when the roaches are bigger than the foot you use to stomp them."

Tom chuckled. "It's not surprising. Look at their house."

Daria felt her eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, their parents are never home, and Trent and Jane are not exactly the most pro-active people."

She couldn't help but feel her friends were under attack, in that indirect tongue-in-cheek method of insulting. Irritated, she jumped to their defense. "You're saying that if you were in the same situation you would have taken it upon yourself to do something sooner about the bugs? These things happen, it's not like it's their fault. It's not a gross house."

Tom shrugged, in a silent "if you say so."

"Jane and Trent are staying with me for the time being." Daria threw out the information, watching Tom carefully for the reaction she sought. Fleetingly, she won her prize. Jealousy flashed in Tom's eyes; Jane had told him about Daria's thing for Trent.

"That's nice of you," Tom said civilly. "Your mother doesn't mind?"

"Not at all."

Jane and Trent just happened to walk past Pizza King at that moment, on the way to buy Trent new toiletries, of which he'd forgotten to pack. When Trent asked Jane to borrow her toothbrush once again, she'd rolled her eyes and grabbed the book of checks their mother left them for bills and other expenses.

Glancing through the window, Trent noticed Daria and Tom sitting at their usual table. Once again, that slight flare of jealousy sparked in the pit of his stomach. His only consolation was that she didn't seem particularly thrilled. Of course, when did she ever seem particularly thrilled?

Noticing her brother's chagrined expression, Jane grabbed Trent's hand, dragging him onward. "Come on, bro. We're going to buy you all new stuff, and you can even take a shower tonight. You can see for yourself that the Axe effect really exists."

"Huh?" Trent dragged himself from his other thoughts, to concentrate on Jane.

"Daria's a girl too. She can't be immune to the smell of Axe. It'll be great, I promise."

"Oh." He still felt slightly confused. It seemed to him it would take more than the smell of a deodorant spray to unravel Daria.

Daria and Tom stood outside his new ride, the Audi. The car bothered Daria more than she cared to admit, for reasons she didn't exactly understand. Perhaps it seemed like an invasion to old happy memories, of driving around in the old junker.

Tom just happened to notice the interesting mahogany design decorating Daria's left hand. "What's this?" he asked, gesturing towards her hand.

"It's henna," Daria explained. "Jane drew it for me. Her new boyfriend is into it."

Tom made a face, which she wasn't sure represented surprise or skepticism. "He's into doodling too, huh? I guess that's better than the last one."

Better than the last two, Daria was beginning to think. What the hell was "doodling" supposed to mean?

"I guess all the Lanes are drawn to tattoos in one form or another," observed Daria, looking down at her hand.

Tom gave a brusque laugh. "No kidding. Trent has what? About 50 on his arms? None of them mean a damn thing. Not that he cares."

"They mean something to him," Daria quietly defended. Tom misread her tone, taking it as a form of agreement. Truly, it was only the calm before the storm.

"Maybe, although I doubt it. He floats through everything in a daze. I doubt he remembers what day of the week it is half the time, much less what the scribbles on his arms are."

"Wow," said Daria, suddenly angry enough for her jaw to clench involuntarily. "You really have become one of them. Anything and anyone different from your conservative old-money values isn't worth anything, is it? When someone has the courage to drift from the unhappy world you've made for everyone else with your money and broken promises, you immediately dismiss them."

Tom's jaw hung open with surprise from her sudden outburst. Daria turned on her heel to walk home, but he grabbed her shoulders, hoping to keep her there long enough to give him time for defense. "Please, Daria, wait." She stood stock still, stiff under his hands, and did not turn to face him. "You make it sound like I single-handedly killed off the hippies, Daria. At least be fair. Loosen up, it's not a big deal." Tom's hands moved up to her shoulders. As he tried to knead fingers into her flesh she shrugged away.

"Don't touch me, Tom. First and foremost, I can see that at Bromwell they put you through Snob 101. I'm sure you passed with flying colors."

"Daria! What…?" He stood, entirely bewildered. How was it that he always seemed to end up on the receiving end of her rare bursts of anger?

Raising her hand in a gesture for silence, Daria shook her head. "I'm going home, Tom. Goodbye."

She walked away without looking back. Frustrated and confused, Tom watched her go.

Daria sat alone in her room, still fuming over Tom. It was after midnight, and the rest of the household slept. At least, she'd thought so, until she heard a light knock on her door. Expecting Jane, she called, "It's open."

Instead of Jane, Daria was surprised to see Trent peek his head through the door. "Hey, Daria."

"Hey Trent." She was positive he could hear her heart suddenly start to thud in her chest.

"You don't look happy."

She raised an eyebrow at that comment, curious how he could tell. She didn't think her mannerisms had changed that drastically from her usual bored self. "Good call."

He entered the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. "So what's wrong?"

Shrugging lightly, Daria couldn't believe she'd even let Tom get under her skin. They'd broken up, so why should she care if he'd turned into the bourgeois snot his breeding pre-destined him to become? She had no idea.

"It's just Tom. He said some things…" Daria watched Trent cross the room in his usual lazy gait, and took a seat next to her on the bed.

"Janey and I saw you two at Pizza King. You didn't look happy then either."

Daria laughed, a short harsh burst. "Yeah. I think I'll just stay away from him now. It seems to be the best action."

Both of Trent's eyebrows raised at the sound of such bitterness in her voice and laugh. It was the closest to furious he'd ever heard her. Daria hunched into herself, hugging her legs in front of her and resting her head on her knees. Trent studied her in what was the equivalent of a vertical fetal position, and felt sorry for her. He wanted to help her feel better, but feared what her reaction would be to what he had in mind. It seemed he'd taken more chances with her in the past couple of weeks, than he'd ever taken with all the other girls in his entire life.

"It'll be alright, Daria," he said, sliding over the comforter to sit behind her. Feeling him shift his weight on the bed, Daria tensed even more. "You just need to relax, and let it go." He reached out to touch her back, and Daria found herself holding her breath at the feel of his fingers sliding over her shoulders. "People change. There's nothing you can do about it."

Daria reflected back on earlier that evening, when Tom had tried to calm her down by massaging her shoulders. She'd bolted out of anger, and her own peculiar brand of being skittish of human contact. Strangely, she didn't feel compelled to run from Trent. His hands kneaded into the tight muscles of her shoulders, smoothed down over her back, and she found it soothing.

Her burning lungs reminded Daria that she'd been holding her breath. Letting it out slowly, she settled down within herself, making the decision to forget about Tom for a little while, and let Trent knead the kinks out of her muscles.

Trent noticed Daria's eyelids slide shut . Truthfully, he was amazed she let him rub her back, and astonished she let go enough to close her eyes. Slowly but surely, she was allowing herself to let go. It was a funny thing about growing up: sooner or later, one learns new things, whether wanting to or not. Trent entertained the idea that maybe, just maybe, if he took things slow enough with her, they would go differently this time.


	8. Perceptive Little Imp

8. Perceptive Little Imp

The Lanes stayed for another week, waiting for their house to become habitable again. Not much changed from moving from one household to another. Trent still slept in until afternoon, and Jane and Daria watched Sick Sad World on the television.

"So what's up with you and Trent?" asked Quinn one day, finding her sister alone perusing the refrigerator.

Suddenly en garde, Daria peered over the refrigerator door, regarding her sibling suspiciously. "What?"

"You and Trent. Is he going to ask you out, or what?"

Daria shut the door, after selecting left over lasagna from the night before. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh come on, Daria," laughed Quinn. "I saw the way you two looked at each other."

The older sister glanced down at the lasagna in her hands, wondering if it was possible to maim with a mere piece of Tupperware. It could probably be done. "Oh did you?" she asked skeptically, feeling under the microscope. From Quinn, that was never a good thing. It meant either discussions about boys, or the latest shades of auborgine.

"You can talk to me about it, you know. It's not like I'll run and tattle," said Quinn. She'd hoped that after being away for a year of college, Daria would maybe warm up to her a little. Although she would never admit it, it hurt sometimes that they were so estranged from each other. She knew it was as much her fault as it was Daria's.

Daria sighed, knowing that was true. As much as she hated to admit it, time had matured Quinn, at least a little. "Ok. What do you want to know?" she ceded.

"Do you like him?"

"Yes," Daria found herself admitting.

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"I have no idea."

Quinn nodded, bouncy hair bobbing with the gesture. She knew she'd probably gotten all she would out of her sister, at least for the day. "Ok. If you want my help, let me know. Good luck."

Daria watched her sister flounce out of the kitchen with narrowed eyes. Perceptive little imp. She doubted she would be enlisting Quinn's help for this one. However, it was a nice gesture. Since when did Quinn want to be nice to her? Growing up indeed.


	9. Sex, Drugs, and Rock n' Roll?

9. Sex, Drugs, and Rock n' Roll?

"Come on, Daria. This is going to be fun," said Jane.

"Do you not remember the fiasco that was our last attempt at attending a concert?" asked Daria, splayed out on her friend's bed. After their last try, Daria was somehow convinced this could only be a repeat event.

"Sure," answered Jane with a smile. "You broke your glasses, stained your pants with a sandwich, was forced to pee sans dignity behind a cluster of bushes, got stung by a bee, and the Tank broke down so we didn't even make it to the concert. It wasn't so bad."

"Mrrr." Not so bad for you, Daria thought.

"And you also got to know Trent better, and over all it was a grand adventure."

"It was a grand something, that's for sure." Adventure wasn't exactly the word that came to Daria's mind.

"Suck it up, Morgandorfer. Trent got the free tickets, so we're going to go."

The tickets in question were to Rock Fest Seventeen, the local rock radio station's annual shindig that brought seventeen popular bands to the same stage for only seventeen dollar tickets. Although, to make the deal even sweeter, Trent had obtained four good seats for free from "a connection". Jane wasn't exactly sure who or what "the connection" was, but she was at least sure he didn't steal them. That would take too much effort.

Daria, having no idea what to wear, found herself in her black t-shirt and jeans from last time. It seemed good enough.

Trent knocked on Jane's door lightly before poking his head in. "Are you guys ready? Reese is here."

"Ready to roll," said Jane, brushing past her brother in the doorway, eager to greet Reese. Trent smiled at Daria sprawled out on the bed before heading back down to the front door himself.

By the grace of some benevolent deity, the tank made it all the way to their destination. Trent and Daria sat in the front, leaving Jane and Reese to roll around with various questionable debris left behind by the band's last gig. Daria secretly mused how funny it would be if Jane found her own stray peanut butter and jelly sandwich to plop down on.

Daria had never been to a concert before, and stuck close to Trent as they weaved in and out of the crowd. Feeling claustrophobic, she concentrated on following the faded green t-shirt in front of her. She knew in the back of her mind if she really felt in danger of losing him she could take his hand; he wouldn't have minded. But at that point, she couldn't quite bring herself to do it.

Despite of the summer heat and pulsing throng of people jostling all around them, Daria enjoyed herself immensely. It was amazing what life could offer with an open mind. Not long ago, she would have died before admitting she could enjoy huge speakers blasting her ears with loud live music. She and Jane had gone to live gigs for Mystic Spiral before, but this was a much grander scale.

After the concert Daria and Trent sat in the open door of the Tank, waiting for Jane and Reese to return from an excursion to buy t-shirts. Darkness had fallen, and a cool summer night breeze wafted through the parking lawn. Daria looked up to peruse the stars, smiling contentedly. In the middle of the open field, they were far from the spotlights of the stage. Nothing obstructed her view of the diamond studded sky.

"You can't see the stars like this in the city," she said quietly, taking a deep breath of cool air. "It's easy to take those little things for granted."

Trent turned to look at her, and found he couldn't tear his eyes away. She sat with her face turned up to the wind and the stars, the whispering breeze catching her long hair. It wafted around her face and shoulders, blown two and fro by the wind. To him, no one could have been more beautiful. At that moment he wanted to kiss her, badly. Vaguely, he wondered how she would react if she did. She would probably flip out, he decided. Courting Daria took a patience and tolerance that would frustrate the hell out of most men. Luckily, Trent didn't mind doing things slowly.

"Fancy seeing you here." A voice from the past cut into Trent's reverie, and the pair turned their heads to regard its owner. Monique stood by the Tank, dressed to the nines in her usual black formfitting garb, leaving very little to the imagination.

"Um…hey, Monique," was Trent's less than warm reply. Enjoying his moment with Daria, seeing an ex was the last hatchet Trent wanted to dig up.

"Enjoy the concert?"

"Sure."

The ex-lovers stared at each other blankly. Monique hoped Trent would say something more. Trent hoped Monique would get the idea and go away.

"So who's this?" asked Monique with a nod to Daria, finally getting around to the real reason for her appearance. She'd noticed Trent with a new girl, and wanted to check it out. In a way, she still considered Trent hers, seeing as none of their break-ups ever seemed entirely official. She didn't know that Trent had finally entirely moved on from her.

"This is my friend, Daria," said Trent. Daria appreciated it that he didn't introduced her as his kid sister's best friend. Even though neither of them were really kids anymore, she supposed it could seem that way to Trent, with he being older.

"You look kinda familiar. Aren't you Janey's little friend?"

Daria raised an eyebrow. If Trent wouldn't put out the label, it seemed Monique would. "Something like that," Daria deadpanned, sounding as disinterested as she felt.

Trent looked back and forth between Monique and Daria, his past lover and the woman he now loved. They were so different, in so many aspects. In a way, he supposed, a rocker like Monique seemed to fit his type better than an academic college student like Daria. Yet, he would swear sitting on a stack of bibles that Daria hung the moon. She was so cool, in her own starkly individual way. Always confident, she'd never cared what people thought about her, for what she wore or said or did.

Monique stood there in her painted on pants and halter-top, displaying her well-toned wares to all who wanted a gander. Yet, it was Daria who Trent found to be irresistibly hot, in her simple black t-shirt and jeans. It was her hair playing over her shoulders in the breeze that fascinated him, and her mouth her so badly wanted to kiss. If she really wanted to, she could have dressed like Monique and all the others, and looked just as alluring. However, it was old. He'd seen that show, a dozen times over.

Sensing she was unwelcome, at least in Daria's presence, Monique decided to make her exit. "I saw you, and just wanted to say hi. Take care, Trent." She didn't acknowledge Daria's presence with so much as a nod. Daria could have cared less.

With a twist of her stomach, Daria remembered that one horrible night, watching Trent leave her house with Monique in tow. The sharp pain of disappointment wrenched her insides that evening, stabbing her thoroughly. Now, how the tables had turned. The alarm bells sounding in her head from the sight of her old rival quickly faded when she noticed that Trent was less than thrilled to see her.

"Daria?" said Trent, watching Monique walk away, putting an extra swing in her hips to remind him what he'd left behind. He didn't miss it.

"Yeah?"

Trent took her hand briefly in his, squeezing her fingers. "Don't ever change."

Noticing the return of Jane and Reese, Trent stood and stretched. "Are you guys finally ready to go?"

"Sure." Jane threw shirts at her best friend and brother. "A memento of our successful trip, compliments of me."


	10. The Camel's Straw

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and reading, guys! Here we go…

10. The Camel's Straw

Weeks more passed. Daria and Jane enjoyed their time off from college immensely, using every opportunity to relax together, eat pizza, and watch Sick, Sad World. Daria and Trent also enjoyed their time together, although nothing official passed between them. They had their shared smiles, brushes of the shoulder when passing in the hall, accidental touches of arms and legs when watching TV on the couch.

Both waited, for some window of opportunity. Neither knew exactly what. Trent was a patient man, and bided his time. Even so, he could have swore the wait was slowly driving him insane. Finally, he broke down and decided to ask the person who knew her best for assistance.

"Janey?" he called, peeking his head into his little sister's room.

"Yo," she replied, briefly paying him a glance before going back to her easel. "What's up?"

"I need help."

Jane raised both eyebrows, curious what he wanted. However, by the tone of his voice she had her suspicions she already knew. Trent plopped down on the corner of her bed, sitting with his elbows resting on his knees. "With what?"

"Daria."

Yep, that was the one. The thought of trying to play matchmaker again kind of alarmed Jane, thinking back on previous botched attempts. They seemed on a steady course; given time, LOTS of time, she figured they would fall into each others arms eventually. It was obvious they liked each other, to everyone but them, it seemed.

"I'm not getting involved," she said. "That's between you and Daria."

Trent sighed, bowing his head. "Please? This is…important." He coughed into his hand. "I don't want to lose her." Before they knew it summer would come to a close, and the girls would go away to college again. Trent didn't want her to slip through his fingers this time.

The desperate note in Trent's voice touched a heartstring in Jane. "How important, Trent?" she asked.

"You know. Really important."

Her brother seemed incredibly interested in the floor suddenly, wanting to avoid looking her in the eyes. However, Jane prodded farther. "Important like how?"

"Like…" Trent sighed, and looked up at Jane, his dark eyes pleading. "Like…I love her. I feel like that camel, with all the straw on its back…Every time I see her, I feel like I could break."

Jane suppressed her laughter, knowing Trent hadn't meant to be funny. "You have such a way with words, Trent."

"Yeah. That's why I write the lyrics."

Jane found herself sighing as well, and set her brush down on her easel. Sitting down next to her brother, she patted his back, wanting to consol him. "Well bro, you're a musician. Do what you do best."

"How is taking a nap going to help?"

Jane couldn't tell if he was joking or not. Choosing to ignore the comment, she moved on. "No, dummy. Write her a song."

"I can do that."

"Good. You can play it at your next gig. My job will be to make sure Daria is there to hear it."

Trent nodded, seeming satisfied with her idea. "A plan. Cool. Thanks."

"No prob."


	11. Practice Makes Passable

A/N: once again, thanks guys!

11. Practice Makes Passable

Jane passed by Trent's room to hear him strumming on his guitar, humming under his breath to himself. "How's it coming, bro?" she asked, peeking her head in. As usual, his room appeared like a nuclear explosion had gone off inside, leaving clothes and other debris scattered everywhere. Only the bed was essentially clear of detritus.

"Ok," he answered. "I have words. I'm working on the music now."

"Nice. Can I read?"

Trent nodded, not looking up from his guitar. Not sure if she should take the gesture as affirmative, or if it was just him keeping physical beat with the music, Jane decided to snatch up the sheet of paper anyways. Scratched across the paper in what passed for handwriting was Trent's new lyrics.

_You've built your own personal cage_

_For your smiles and your laughter_

_Your love and your rage_

_You can't get out_

_I can't get in_

_I want to shout_

_My head starts to spin_

_My inhibitions are burning,_

_Through the smoke I see_

_Quiet girl,_

_You're lovely to me_

_You're my deep secret_

_Locked up in my head_

_Without you I sleep_

_But inside I feel dead _

_Quiet girl, _

_Under lock and key_

_Through the bars I see_

_Quiet girl, you're everything to me_

_Quiet girl, quiet girl_

_You're everything to me_

Jane found herself reading through the verses once, twice, then three times before she looked up from the paper. Not because they didn't make sense in Mystik Spiral's usual non-coherent bizarre style, but because they were so unlike anything he'd ever written before.

"Wow, Trent," she said with a pair of raised eyebrows. "I'm impressed. These are actually good. I mean, they're quite possibly your best work yet."

Trent paused in his strumming to look up at his sister. "Thanks, Janey. Do you think…"

"That Daria will like it?" finished Jane. "Yeah, I do. It's good, strong poetry, Trent Lane style. She'll dig it."

Trent laughed, then coughed into his hand. "Let's hope."

"Keepin' the fingers crossed, bro. Speaking of which, where's the next gig at? What am I up against?"

"It's at a party, somewhere across town."

"What kind of party? Bar-mitzvah? High schoolers? College kids?"

"Older kids." Trent spoke in sentence fragments again, having had gone back to his guitar. "A guy I knew from high school. Rich dude, big house. There will be lots of older guys. You two won't have any trouble getting in."

"Hmm," mused Jane. "It's not getting in that's the chore, it's getting Daria THERE." She shrugged, looking forward to a challenge. "Doesn't matter. I'll do it."

Trent nodded again, picking out a slow riff on his acoustic. Once again unsure if his gesture was an agreement or a twitch, she wished him good luck, and vacated the room.

Later that night at practice, the bandmates read over Trent's new material. "Dude," said Nick, regarding the now crumpled piece of notebook paper clasped in his hand. "How did you come up with this?"

Trent shrugged in response, so uncharacteristically, Jesse gave an answer. "He wrote it for Daria, man. He's finally making his move."

Max gave a harsh laugh. "Dude, you want to get laid by the bookworm? I guess she's finally legal now. So much for being a _criminale_!"

Trent responded to the jeer with a glare in Max's direction. He was obviously in one of his less mature moods, to which the best remedy was usually ignoring his comments. It pissed him off, but was less likely to start a fight.

"I like it," said Nick. He stood still, reading over the lyrics again.

"Me too," said Jesse. "If we make something good out of it, we can use it for the Battle of the Bands."

"With a hard riff, this has potential," mused the bassist. "Maybe we'll actually win this year."

Trent bobbed his head slowly in agreement with all parties. "We can try it out at our next gig. See how the audience reacts," he suggested.

"Why? Because Daria will be there?" taunted Max, enjoying his childish humor.

If Jane does her part, thought Trent. "She might be," he answered nonchalantly.


	12. Sucker Punch

A/N: Once again, I would like to say thank you for the reviews, guys. They help the story a lot, and also thanks for the spelling tips, Hollarious. I appreciate it. ;)

12. Sucker Punch

"How did I let you talk me into this?" asked Daria, begrudgingly allowing Jane to apply makeup to her face. She limited herself to eye shadow and mascara, knowing Daria would draw the line at lipstick.

"Because you love me, and don't want to let me face a party full of older hot guys alone while I watch my brother's band perform," said Jane, touching on her mascara.

"Right. Oh wait, isn't that why Reese is coming with you too?" chided Daria.

Jane sighed. "Can it, Morgendorffer. You want to see Trent sing. I know this and you know this, I'm just the one willing to admit it."

Daria rolled her eyes. Damn astute best friend.

The clock only read ten PM, but already the party inside the Tellerbrook residence was starting to get loud. Mystik Spiral hadn't even finished setting up yet.

With much chagrin, Daria noticed they were now in Tom's neck of the woods, with Beverly Hills size mansions all lined up in neat rows. The two girls made their way to the Tank with Reese in tow. "Looks like a huge crowd," commented Jane to Trent, who was fiddling with an amp out the back doors of the Tank.

"Vick's parties always were," answered Trent, knowing they would find people of all walks of life inside. Vick was a cool guy like that: even though his parents were nearly richer than the Sloans, he made friends with everyone.

The sound of something breaking inside, and an excited collective "Whooo!" resonated to the lawn from the living room area, causing Daria and Jane to raise their eyebrows. "You guys better hurry," quipped Jane, "Or else they're going to find even better entertainment with the china and hammers."

Trent coughed, which also passed for a laugh. "You guys can go in, we're almost ready," he said, finally looking up from his amp to catch Daria's eyes. He gave a small smile, which she returned.

_How the hell do you really think she's going to react to this song?_ Trent asked himself this, entirely aware that she wouldn't faint and fall over him at the mere mention of her name on stage, like some girls. Not that he planned to mention her name. Subjecting her to such embarrassment would doom him for sure. The truth was, Trent didn't know what to expect. In a way that was part of the fun. He was simply poking the coals, and praying to whatever divine power would find it amusing to allow a flame to catch.

He watched the girls walk towards the house, as taken with the rear view as the front with Daria. Tonight she wore a burgundy tunic-like shirt that hit her mid-thigh, and jeans with her boots. The shirt had black embroidery at the hem and collar, and Trent absently wondered if the fabric felt as soft as it looked.

"Dude," said Max quietly from behind the lead singer, watching the girls scale the porch steps. "Look at her! Now I want to get laid by the book worm too."

Trent pretended that he hadn't heard his band mate's crude comment about Daria, but secretly smiled to himself. Now everyone was beginning to see what he'd known all along: she was beautiful.

Finally set up, Trent stepped up to the microphone. "Hey, we're Mystik Spiral, but we might change our name soon. This song's called "Icebox Woman".

The band launched into a set of their older material, of which the increasingly inebriated crowd enjoyed. Jane and Daria enjoyed it too, for nostalgia's sake. Reese admitted to having no idea what to think.

"I'm going to get us some drinks," said Jane, standing from the couch they'd commandeered. "What do you want, Daria?"

"Soda is fine," she responded, not planning on imbibing at all in such an alien environment.

Jane returned with three cups of red liquid. "This is from the un-spiked punch bowl," she explained, handing her compatriots their beverages.

"There exists such a thing?" asked Daria, eyeing the hummingbird juice suspiciously.

"It has to be. Taste it."

Daria did, cautiously. The fruity taste filled her mouth, but no aftereffect sting of alcohol. Bravely, she decided to trust Jane.

Happily nodding to her brother's music, Jane noticed all three of their glasses were empty. "I'll get us some more," she said, standing again. Reese decided to accompany her, standing as well. The pair disappeared in the direction of the drinks, and Daria waited on the couch. She looked up at the stage, and found herself smiling at the sight of Trent hitting a note with his eyes closed, lost in the music. Mystik Spiral wasn't great, but they weren't horrible anymore either. Little by little, the band was improving.

Between songs, Trent noticed an odd and unwelcome sight down below. The lead singer from Dynamo, a rival band, was munching pretzels and listening to their music. Usually Cliff wouldn't be caught dead seeming to enjoy Mystik Spiral, which left Trent to wonder what he was up to. Was he just there for the party? Trent caught his eye across the room, and noted the smirk on Cliff's face. Suspicions rose, and Trent wondered if the rest of Dynamo was there somewhere in the crowd, listening in on Spiral's material, wondering what they would be up against that year in the Battle of the Bands. By a hair, Spiral had placed higher on the audience's preferred listening list released after the battle via a survey. It didn't sit well with Dynamo.

Trent found after finishing the first set that his band mates had also noticed Dynamo at the party. "What the hell does he think he's doing here?" sniped Nick, feeling his blood-pressure starting to rise.

"Be cool, man," said Trent, not wanting a fight to break out. "He's just checking us out. Battle of the Bands is only two weeks away."

"Dude!" exclaimed Jesse, pointing across the room. "He's hitting on your girl, man."

Trent followed the implied direction of Jesse's pointing finger, to see Cliff sitting on the couch next to Daria, offering her a cup of red liquid. He felt confident that Daria wouldn't take the drink, or anything a jerk like Cliff threw at her. Daria drinking at a party? No damn way, he just couldn't see it. Still, he stared across the room at the bleach-blond guy hitting on his girl. There was that warm feeling again in the pit of his stomach. It didn't sit well at all with the pizza he'd eaten for dinner.

"Dynamo wants to see what's new with Spiral?" mused Trent, picking up his guitar with a determined look in his eye. "Let's show them. Quiet Girl."

The others nodded, eager to test out their new song.

Out one ear, Daria vaguely heard Trent speaking into the microphone. "...a newer song. This is 'Quiet Girl'."

In the other ear, however, roared the din of the party around her, and a guy with bleach-blond hair talking to her named Cliff. She caught that he was in a band, called Dynasaur, or Dynamite, or something equally dumb. They were obviously rivals of Mystik Spiral, and he seemed to have a personal bone to pick with Trent. Where was Jane? She and Reese had disappeared a few minutes ago. Or was it an hour ago? Daria had no idea. She vaguely remembered thinking before the buzz hit her like a ton of bricks that the "un-spiked punch" was soooo not un-spiked. Damn you Jane. Daria was beginning to sweat: her ears burned and the atmosphere of the room pulsed with loud music and excited people.

"Want to go someplace quieter?" asked Cliff.

Oblivious to his intentions, just wanting to escape into cool night air, Daria agreed and followed him out to the back porch.

Trent's heart sank to his feet as he watched Daria follow Cliff through the crowd and out the back door, in the very middle of her song. He nearly missed a beat, and his voice cracked. Quickly shaking it off, he continued with the song, lacking the enthusiasm he'd felt only moments before. So much for a grand romantic gesture. Where the hell was Jane?


	13. On A Hunch

A/N: Hey guys, thanks for the reviews, and sorry about the cliff hanger. I didn't mean to wait this long to update, but something wasn't working with the server. Hopefully this chapter will make up for it. ;)

13. On A Hunch

The party winding down, Mystik Spiral packed their gear back into the Tank. Trent closed the back doors, and wondered where Daria and Jane had disappeared off to. Not wanting to leave either of them behind, he decided to start with the source of his heart break first.

Afraid of what he would see, he peeked his head around the back of the house. He found Daria and Cliff, Daria sitting on the rail, and the Dynamo front man standing close in an annoyingly friendly way. Trent felt his muscles clench as Cliff leaned in towards Daria's mouth, but like a car wreck, couldn't tear his eyes away.

Daria watched Cliff lean closer and closer, knowing exactly what he'd had in mind. She felt sluggish, but still managed to duck out of the way at the last second. With an escape route open, she slipped off her seat on the railing, only stumbling a little, before making her way towards the stairs. He'd kept her trapped in that corner for most of the time of their escape outside. She'd stayed put, afraid trying to pass him at a close capacity would only mean him grabbing for her. Daria was never in fear of her safety; she simply didn't want to exchange any form of contact with Cliff, even in her inebriated state. Sitting outside in the cool night air had helped cool her senses; Cliff talking in a slow slur in the background was merely an annoyance. "Hey, come back," said Cliff, turning. "Where y'a goin'?"

"The music stopped," explained Daria, finding it difficult to wrap her lips around the correct syllables. "I don't want to get left behind when the band leaves."

"Don't worry about them," said Cliff. "I can take you home."

Daria laughed to herself, knowing he was in no condition to drive, nor did he have any intention of taking her home. She began to descend the steps, making it down successfully until the last one. Her toe caught the edge, sending her flying with a high-pitched and shamefully girly yip.

Having braced herself for a hard hit on the cobblestone patio below, Daria was extremely surprised to find herself having fallen in a pair of waiting arms. She recognized her savior's herbal aroma long before she opened her eyes. A sudden consuming feeling of joy filled Daria, and she mused _I am so drunk_ before exclaiming, "Trent! Did you know the un-spiked punch is really spiked? Jane lied to me. I had four glasses. My face feels funny."

Trent blinked his eyes with surprise, not having ever heard such a long string of sentences escape Daria in all his life. It sounded like she and Jane had unwittingly gotten into the Hunch Punch. He was glad she was so skinny, or else her classic drunken fall would have probably taken them both to the ground. She now rested against him, not a breath between their bodies. _She's just gaining her feet_, Trent, he told himself. _Don't take it for anything more than it really is._

Trent glanced up at Cliff, to see the singer of Dynamo glaring daggers at him. Taking mild satisfaction in the fact Daria was coming home with him after all, (because they certainly couldn't take her back to her house like this), Trent smirked at Cliff and began to lead Daria back to the Tank with an arm around her waist. "It was hot in the party, and there were too many people, so I went outside," said Daria quickly. "I think that guy was trying to kiss me. He's in a band too. He doesn't like you much."

Trent, fighting not to laugh, coughed instead. "Yeah, me and Cliff don't get along. Competition for gigs and all." Although extremely disappointed that the song idea fell through, he was relieved to know Cliff and Daria hadn't left the party to go make out. He doubted she'd had much of an idea what was going on when he played her song, and decided he was just glad Cliff hadn't taken advantage of her. Trying to see the bright side, Trent reminded himself that there would be other nights to play her song; the extra time could be used to make it better. The intro could use some work, as could the chord progressions, and the vocals…_you're going to rewrite the whole damn song, aren't you Lane,_ he scolded himself.

He was also relieved to see Jane and Reese standing by the van, giggling and kissing. It meant he didn't have to search the huge house for them. The rest of the band glanced in their direction every once in a while, smirking at the amateur partiers.

"Dude, Daria's smashed too?" said Jesse, surprised to see Jane's quiet genius friend barely able to keep her feet with Trent's arm around her waist. "I never thought I'd see that."

"Me neither, man," agreed Trent.

"We'll come back for Reese's car tomorrow," said Jane. "I'm so tired. Let's go home."

"I second the motion," said Daria, leaning against Trent as the world spun slightly. "Did you really think that punch wasn't spiked?"

Jane giggled and fell against Reese, who almost fell over himself. "Does it matter now?" she asked.

_I guess not_, thought Daria._ I hope I don't throw up_.

With Daria in one arm and his guitar in the other, he made his way down the hall to his room. Although he was not yet sure where to deposit Daria for the night, he knew he wanted to put away his guitar. Jane and Reese had rushed ahead and slammed her door, eliminating the possibility of parking her there. Where Daria usually froze at the mere sight of Trent's door, he was surprised when she walked right in, and even plopped down on the edge of the bed while he set down his Alvarez in the corner.

While scratching the back of his neck, the mystified musician looked down at a very inebriated Daria. He _never _thought he would live to see the day. "Um…so where do you want to crash?" he asked, thinking maybe she had a preference that would make his job easier.

Daria shrugged, swinging her feet so her boots tapped the edge of the bed. "I have no idea," she admitted. Poking the mattress, as if it were a novelty, she observed, "This is a soft bed. Probably because you're always in it."

"You can sleep there if you want," Trent offered. "I'll crash on the couch for tonight."

Barely managing without falling backwards, Daria drew her leg up to unlace her boots. "Ok. But I don't want to steal your bed. You can stay if you want." Trent froze, knowing it was a suggestion he wanted to take her up on, and knowing he probably shouldn't. What would she say in the morning? What indeed.

Having fumbled with her bootlaces for longer than she'd planned, Daria sighed with frustration, and extended her leg. "Will you help me with these? My fingers don't work." Another beat passed, and she shook her head. "I am so sorry for being like this. It was an accident."

Once again, Trent felt the eyebrows raise, and he laughed at the pure oddity and cruelty of the situation. The girl of his dreams was sitting in his room, offering to share a bed with him, asking him to help undress her, and he wasn't allowed to do a damn thing about it. "It's ok, Daria," he said, kneeling down to unlace her boots. "It's kinda funny, actually."

"I guess. In a twisted, Sick Sad World sort of way."

Trent couldn't exactly disagree with that one.

Waking up, Daria felt as if she were struggling to rise from a sticky fog. Her head pounded viciously, but the arm around her waist and tickling breath against the back of her neck was soothingly warm.

Wait. Arm around her waist?

Daria turned to look behind her, to find it was Trent's warm body spooning hers, sleeping like a baby. She couldn't see clearly without her glasses, but clearly enough to know. Their legs were also entangled, and she realized somewhere along the line she'd lost her jeans. Two subsequent thoughts entered her mind: _What the hell did I do last night that I'm not remembering_, and _Jane, I'm going to kill you_.

She wondered if she could disentangle herself from Trent without waking him. She also found herself thinking why would she want to, before deciding to push that thought away and try.

Trent let out a sound that sounded somewhat similar to a whine as Daria rolled over, and his eyes opened. "Um…hi Trent," she said, feeling awkward and confused and warm on the inside all at the same time.

"Hey," he greeted sleepily, sitting up on one elbow.

"That definitely wasn't the un-spiked punch. I have to ask…."

"Yeah…that was definitely hunch-punch you two got into."

"Meaning?" Trent smiled slightly at Daria's inexperience in such areas, and wondered how she'd made it through her first year of college without knowing the taste of alcohol.

"Hawaiian punch, vodka, and Everclear." Trent coughed, hiding a wider smile behind his hand. They must have mixed it pretty well at the party, to hide the taste of vodka and 190 proof Everclear.

"And…um…" At a loss for words, unable to vocalize the fact that they were sharing a bed in less than what they'd started the evening wearing, Daria made a gesture with her hand indicating the two of them.

Trent found himself coughing again, also not exactly sure what to say. "Yeah…that. Nothing happened. We just crashed here."

Daria nodded, appearing relieved. "Ok." Trent mused, would it have been so bad if something had happened? Given the circumstances, he supposed so. There would be other nights, hopefully. Trent watched the thoughts fly across Daria's face as she debated on what to do next. Her body told her to sink back down into the warm covers with Trent on a cool morning, and sleep in. And the way it always did in situations like this, her mind screamed at her, flee! What am I so damn afraid of, she asked herself. Trent? He wouldn't hurt her. _You're afraid of yourself_, _Morgendorffer_, she finally answered. _You're afraid you're not good enough_.

Although the details were fuzzy without her glasses, Daria could see Trent watching her intently, curious what she was going to do. As usual, the extent of their interaction was mostly based upon her own fright. So she summed the situation in a way she knew: with logic. She felt like hell, probably looked like shit, and her mother would be waiting at home to lecture her on staying out all night. The most positive aspect of the day was lying there beside her. So in a rare moment of what seemed to her like reckless abandon, Daria settled back down into the covers and the warmth of her best friend's brother.

Trent froze, having never been more surprised in his life. She'd made the decision to stay in bed with him, and she'd made it now completely sober. If Daria could get over it, he certainly could. Reveling greedily in her scent, softness, and the feel of her smooth legs against his, Trent wrapped his arms around Daria, and they fell back asleep.


	14. Just Don't Inhale

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em, just write about 'em

14. Just Don't Inhale

A storm pounded on the windows outside, promising buckets of rain to fall within the hour. Lightning flashed, and great rolling grumbles of thunder followed. "So you spent the night with him, and still managed to not let anything happen. Only you, Morgendorffer."

Jane and Daria sat at her kitchen table a week after their fiasco at the party. Daria leafed through a literary magazine, while Jane labored on constructing a skewed sculpture to paint. Seeing the humor of the situation, Daria couldn't help but laugh at herself. "I had a hangover, from someone's misidentification of beverages. Splitting headaches don't exactly make me feel frisky."

"Well what would? Cat food? Come on, whiskas, you've got to admit you were close."

Daria nodded, flashing back on the feeling of Trent's arms around her and nestling in the hollow of his neck, fitting exactly underneath his chin. She shook off the shudder, and said, "Yeah, I was close. We were close. The thing is, he's not going anywhere."

"Maybe he's not, but you are, and time certainly is! You'll be back in Boston before you know it, wondering what the hell happened."

A loud reverberating sound coming from the basement, almost louder than the thunder, rattling the base of Jane's sculpture and causing Daria to jump with alarm. With the band practicing, it was a normal occurrence. However, the hysterical laughter floating up the stairs following it wasn't. Daria raised an eyebrow, asking Jane without a word what was going on.

Jane laughed at Daria's confusion. "It's their pre-Battle of the Bands ritual. I guess they hope they'll get some crazy inspiration, or something." Daria still didn't get it, so Jane made a gesture of pinching a roach and puffing. "This is about the only night of the year they do it. At least, all together."

"Nothing like killing some brain cells to better a performance," deadpanned Daria.

A mischievous grin crossed Jane's lips. "You want to go say hi?"

Daria's eyes widened, and Jane laughed at her obvious discomfort. "Oh come on, Daria. It'll be fun. Kick back, breathe in some smoke. We're already on our way to making an alcoholic out of you."

"It's just so sweet when it hit's the lips…" said Daria with an eye roll, allowing Jane to drag her towards the basement stairs.

"Jane!" exclaimed the band, seeing her through the foggy haze they'd created in the basement. This is going to take more than a few incense sticks to fix, thought Daria, noting the candles and burning sandalwood flavored sticks. "And Daria!" They all gave lazy grins, seemingly pleased to have female company.

"Did you hear that sweet chord? Killer," said Nick, fondling his bass. He was the only one with an instrument in his hands still; the others had given it up to lounge on the floor and the couch, staring at the ceiling or the wall.

Daria glanced over at Trent, to see him staring in her direction, smiling lazily.

"Sure was," said Jane with an eye roll.

Nick scowled, but the rest of the band laughed. "Dude, you guys have _got_ to hit this with us! It's amazing," exclaimed Jesse, holding up his bong. Another of her signature evil grins curled up the corners of Jane's red lips, and she elbowed Daria. "Come on, kid. You only live once."

"Dear God I hope so."

"Man, I've got the munchies," said Jesse, staring up at the ceiling.

"Me too," echoed the rest of the band, and the two joiners. Daria looked around the room, vision seeming to move slower than her head. The colors of the candles danced around the room in a prism.

"Come on, Daria," said Trent, standing shakily. "Lets bring down some food from upstairs." Daria stared at the hand offered, as if it were a hook attached to an incredibly long rope. It seemed that Trent was impossibly tall, his head in the clouds. The singer smiled slightly, remembering his first time high, understanding how Daria felt.

Finally, she clasped his hand, and Trent pulled her to her feet. After stumbling twice, the pair finally reached the summit of the stairs, clutching each other for support and giggling.

The storm roared angrily outside, rain slapping against the windows and rattling the house. Daria and Trent barely noticed, making their way to the kitchen. Fingers interlaced with Daria's, Trent led them into the kitchen. With food on the brain, Trent thought back, remembering the time Daria had a stint working at the nut stand. She'd smelled wonderfully of peanuts, and he'd been stuck with an un-relenting craving for them for days. Now he mused if it was the peanuts he'd craved nibbling on, or the girl who smelled so delightfully of them.

The pair opened the refrigerator to find it nearly empty, as usual, except for a chocolate bar and some soda. "Looks like we're ordering pizza," commented Daria.

"Looks like," agreed Trent, pleased to at least have found a candy bar. He snatched it out of the side door, and peeled off the wrapper. "Looks like we've got chocolate for us. We can find chips or something for the guys downstairs."

They shared a conspiratorial smile as he handed her half, and they proceeded to satiate their own cases of the munchies. Trent watched her with hungry eyes as she finished her half of the bar and laughed, holding up chocolate covered fingers. "I need to wash my hands," she declared, and looked around the kitchen in a disoriented manner, as if she'd forgotten where the sink was cleverly hidden.

Acting upon an impulse, Trent reached out for Daria's hand. She watched him near closer to her, fascinated by his movements from both her distorted perceptions, and because it was simply Trent extending a hand for her. Raising her fingers to his mouth, he slipped her thumb between his lips, laving it clean of any possible trace of chocolate. A small sigh escaped from Daria's lips, causing Trent to roll his dark eyes up to meet hers.

Just as he was about to move to the next digit, Nick burst into the kitchen, startling the pair. "Dude, did you find any food?" he asked, moving immediately towards the refrigerator. Oblivious to Daria and Trent, he opened it to examine its lack of contents. With a mournful gaze up at Trent, Daria pulled away slowly to go to the sink. She could have swore as she turned her back she heard Trent mutter under his breath, "I'm going to kill him." The thought of Trent exerting himself physically for anything, much less a fight, brought a slight smile to her lips. There was no way that would happen.


	15. Quietly, Rock On

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em, just write about 'em

A/N: Thank you so much, dear readers, for all the wonderful reviews! I appreciate your feedback greatly!

15. Quietly, Rock On

From up on stage Trent searched the audience as Mystik Spiral set up, trying to find his sister, and at least for the night more importantly, the woman he loved. Jane promised to get Daria to the Zon for the Battle of the Bands on time for Mystik's set, and double promised not to persuade Daria to imbibe any liquids of questionable content. The pair of girls had yet to arrive on the scene.

The place was packed, and Trent toyed with the idea that maybe his girls were in the house, lost in the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he recognized a flash of familiar brown hair, but further inspection only revealed a punky teenager across the room. She winked at him, and he pretended not to see. Definitely not Daria.

One more scan of the crowd did reveal a familiar face, one of which he could have done without. Monique smiled up at him from the pit, and tossed her hair suggestively. Where he couldn't just pretend he hadn't seen, Trent stared back at her blankly. Wondering why she was watching and not competing, he deduced she must be between bands again.

"Are you ready, dude?" asked Jesse, just finishing stringing cords all across the stage with Nick and Max.

Trent looked down at his guitar strapped across his shoulder, toggling the knobs one last time. He was stalling, and the rest of the band knew it. Daria hadn't arrived yet.

Trent's heart sank down to his feet. It looked like once again, they would be playing Daria's song, without her present. Resigned, Trent looked up from his instrument. "Yeah man. I'm ready."

Trent stepped up to the mic. "Hey," he said to the crowd, sounding less than enthused. "We're Mystik Spiral, and this is called¾"

A sight met Trent's eyes that stopped his speech dead. Daria and Jane slipped in the doors, and took a place in the back by the tables. Jane gave a finger wave, and Trent cracked a smile, never more relieved in his entire life. "This is called Quiet Girl," he resumed, adrenaline suddenly pumping full force in his veins. He could suddenly feel the electricity of the crowd buzzing in his head, magnified by the steady thudding of his heart. It was a rush unequaled by any ingestible drug.

Daria listened to the song, a small smile in place. Despite the fact she hated the press of a large crowd, she felt it a worthy trial to hear Trent play. The song started with a low, powerful riff, belted out by Max and Nick on the bass and drums. Immediately it caught the crowd, and not a person in the house could resist from moving some body part to the beat. Daria and Jane shared a smile, bobbing their heads to the bass.

Jessy and Trent started in slow with their guitars, following the riff with their higher, clearer compliment of notes. Then with a final glance in Daria's direction, Trent drew a breath, and closed his eyes. His voice rose from the darkness of the low notes, like the moon finally rising over the trees to join a blanket full of sparkling stars. No one who knew Spiral could remember a time when Trent used his voice alone as a musical instrument, and not as the scratchy sound it usually took on. Jane didn't know he could. "_You've built your own personal cage, for your smiles and your laughter, your love and your rage, you can't get out, I can't get in, I want to shout, my head starts to spin."_

The crowd went wild as he launched into the chorus, his voice soaring over the spectators, filling the room with a new energy. The band rode the rush, falling into the groove and playing to the best of their abilities. Trent felt so exhilarated, the adrenaline shook him to the core. "_My inhibitions are burning, through the smoke I see, quiet girl,_

_you're lovely to me."_

Daria watched Trent up on the stage, amazed by his performance. The power of his voice when he hit certain notes gave her chills. It was a love song with bite. The whisper of a secret lover backed with the hard edge of passion. "_You're my deep secret, locked up in my head. Without you I sleep, but inside I feel dead." _

Jesse's fingers danced across the fret board in a shimmering guitar solo, and Jane couldn't help but feel a pang herself for her old beaux. Maybe he acted dumb, but sometimes, like right then, he had the power to create something beautiful. As an artist, Jane respected that greatly.

Daria watched Trent as he finished the song, and a pang hit her deep in the chest. His skin glistened with sweat, but he glowed with something else entirely. Standing up there on stage with his eyes closed, singing the lyrics he wrote himself, Daria thought he'd never appeared more beautiful. At that moment, she hoped with all her heart the band would get their break. After listening to them tonight, she saw it would be a crime for them to have to slip into the drudge days of the rest of zombified society, when this form of art was so obviously what they were meant to do. "_Quiet girl, under lock and key, through the bars I see, quiet girl, you're everything to me. Quiet girl, quiet girl, you're everything to me."_

As it began, the song ended with a bass line, the final note allowed to reverberate out into the air, filling the hearts and lungs of the crowd. Judging by the reactions of the diverse crowd, the song immediately made it to the top contenders. People clapped their hemp-braceleted hands, stomped their Chucks, pointed with silver ringed fingers.

However, at the moment these reactions didn't concern Trent. Only one person's opinion mattered to him at that moment, and he looked to the back of the crowd to find her. Their eyes met over the throng of waving and screaming people, and for a moment Trent heard none of it. He watched for her reaction, felt the thundering in his chest, the thrum of his pulse the only sound in his ears.

Slowly, the corners of Daria's lips turned up in a warm smile. She raised her small hand to Trent, curling her thumb and two slender middle fingers, signaling to him a silent "rock on". He sighed with relief, cracking a not-often-seen grin. He noticed that his hands were shaking, ever so slightly. Partly, his muscles were weary from the intense adrenaline high. But partly, they shook from nerves, because Trent knew that singing Daria her song equivocated only half of making his move.


	16. Under Her Shell

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em, just write about 'em

A/N: Sorry about the delay, guys. It seems I spent forever tweaking this chapter trying to get the characters' actions believable. Hope that worked out. I thought I would be ending the fic with this one, but there's still at least one more chapter to be written. Needless to say, I doubt it will be finished before school starts now…sorry. And thank you all so much for the constructive reviews! Peace!

16. Under Her Shell

"Who do you think that is?" voiced Jane, looking across the parking lot at a man speaking to Trent.

"Don't know," answered Daria, eyeing the stranger. He'd stuck out like a sore thumb in the club, the only older man wearing a three piece suit. Daria had noticed him after Spiral played _Quiet Girl_, having lost interest in most of the following bands. It wasn't that she didn't like to hear other bands play, but after Spiral's incredible performance, no one else quite compared.

"Do you think he could be a talent scout?" asked Jane, a note of excitement in her voice.

The thought had occurred to Daria. "Let's hope so. Tonight was definitely the night to see Spiral play."

"No shit," agreed Jane. "Do you think we should go back inside, before they realize we're spying on them?"

Daria shrugged in compliance, and the two girls went back in to join the party. It would be a long night, after all, it wasn't every day Mystik Spiral won the Battle of the Bands. In fact, until then they'd never won anything at all.

After the two girls slipped back inside, Trent turned his attention back to Mr. Murphy. He obviously came from an agency with money, judging by the suit, rolex, and diamond ring weighing down his finger. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm impressed by Mystik Spiral," he said. "It could need a new name, but there's real potential there in the music. I've got a feeling. Do more of that, and we'll see what happens."

Trent raised his eyebrows, failing at hiding his surprise, and excitement. He expressed his feelings articulately. "Cool, man."

Mr. Murphy smiled, and handed Trent a card. "I'll see you around, Trent. Good luck." With that parting shot, he sauntered off to the parking lot, unlocking his BMW beamer with a click of the key fob.

Tucking the card safely into his back pocket, Trent paused for a moment to watch the lights of the beamer disappear into the night. Every band has its bad starts, he told himself. No one is perfect in the beginning. Now is Mystik's time to rock. We might actually get somewhere now, he told himself with a smile. Trent went back inside the Zon. After all, this time the party was for Spiral.

It didn't take Trent long to locate the girls in the crowd. They were sitting at a table in the back now, finally able to grab a seat after some of the crowd cleared from the dive. As he weaved through the standing people a hand caught his arm. He glared at the offending article, having single mindedly been on a path for Daria. "Congrats, Babe," said Monique. "You were awesome tonight."

"Thanks," he said, brushing off the hand, returning to the goal he had in mind. Monique watched him go, indignant disbelief written clear across her expression. Jane caught the interlude out of the corner of her eye, and smiled to herself happily, having never been a huge Monique fan, no matter what state of relationship she was in with her brother.

Trent finally made it to their table, just in time to find Cliff attempting to make conversation with Daria, offering to buy her a drink. "Hey, Daria," he said. "Want to go outside?" Although he'd just come from there, they needed to talk, and in the middle of the bustle of the Zon wasn't the right place.

"I was talking to the lady here," protested Cliff, shooting Trent a dirty look. Daria stood from her chair, glancing at the lead singer of Dynamo wearily. Praying he wouldn't be stupid with the few beers already in him and try to start a fight, Daria rose from her chair.

"Let's go," she said, ready to go anywhere Cliff wasn't.

Jane smiled to herself as she watched her brother and best friend make their way to the side door. Things were finally beginning to fall into their place, after years of trials and tribulation. She just hoped neither of them would screw it up tonight, as they both were so prone to do.

A gentle evening breeze whispered in the leaves, cool on the pair's skin and stirring Daria's hair. She found herself standing outside the Zon with Trent, searching her mind desperately for the right answers for what ever he was about to say to her. She felt it was one test she couldn't prepare for, that she'd bombed time and time before.

"So who was that guy in the suit?" she asked, leaning against the brick wall of the Zon.

Trent paused for a moment, distracted by a wisp of hair brushing her cheek. The littlest things with Daria fascinated him. He thought back on the day she fell back asleep in his arms, instead of running for the hills like usual. For the first time in years, he hadn't been able to fall back asleep. With her lying against him, he'd found himself captivated by her slightest movements, the sound of her breathing and the sensation of her chest pushing against his as she drew a breath. Giving himself a mental shake, Trent returned to the present. "A talent scout," he answered. "His name is Vincent Murphy, from Immortal Records. I think he's interested in Spiral."

Daria's eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows forming perfect arches. Immortal Records? That's a fairly large label, isn't it? Trent, this could be a wonderful opportunity for the band."

"Yeah. But we need to write more music. I don't think he'd like much of our older material."

Daria shrugged, not exactly disagreeing. "Then do it. What ever inspired you to write that song, find it again."

Trent turned his dark eyes up again to regard Daria, his mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water. He hadn't expected such a direct opportunity to reveal _Quiet Girl_'s true origin, or for the opportunity to come up so soon in their conversation. Finally, he decided to hell with it, he might as well tell her now. "I wrote that song about you, Daria," he said quietly, watching her closely to gauge her reaction.

Time suddenly passed at an absolute crawl, as Trent waited for Daria to say something. The surprise surfaced on her face, and didn't sink back down to indifference, as emotions usually revealed themselves fleetingly on her visage. Yes, she'd had an inkling. But it was so much different than hearing Trent outright tell her. How has he slipped under my radar for so long, she wondered? Next to Jane, he'd known her best all along.

Trent counted the length of their silence in heartbeats, holding his breath, waiting for her to speak. Although they stood close together, he couldn't help but feel every passing second pushing them a fraction apart. Finally, she forced herself to speak, outside of monosyllables. "It's a wonderful song, Trent. Thank you."

Remembering from the burning in his lungs that he needed to breathe to survive, Trent exhaled slowly. "I…" He took another deep breath, noticing how intently Daria listened to him. It offered a small comfort, to know she was on edge as much as him. Why did they make this so hard on each other, he wondered, when it seemed such a simple thing to admit they liked each other? "I see you, Daria," he finally continued. "Underneath your shell, I know how beautiful you really are."

Absently, he reached up towards her face, about to brush her cheek with fingertips before stopping himself, remembering that he could spook her. He stopped a fraction of an inch from her skin, before beginning to draw away.

Daria was given a split second to react. She usually operated on solid logic, and took time to think things through. Usually, it was the way she liked to live, by facts and hard proven truths, without wild guesses. But opportunities with Trent passed like the blink of an eye, as quickly as a butterfly could beat its wings once. So for once, she reacted not with the cognitions of her oh-so-logical mind, but with what her heart told her to do.

Quickly, Daria leaned her cheek into Trent's warm palm, reaching up to place her hand over his. She'd made her decision, she realized, a long time ago. She'd had her careful thinking through after all, over the course of years, and she'd decided that she trusted him implicitly.

Their eyes met, and Trent fought the urge to sigh with relief. In her eyes, he could see she wasn't going to bolt this time. In her eyes, he could see everything now. It was like a gift of sorts from Daria, for her to let down her defenses, and allow emotions to the surface. Looking in her eyes, Trent suddenly knew he finally had permission to do something he'd craved for years.

Trent leaned towards Daria, one hand steadying himself against the wall near her head, the other still cupping her cheek. She closed her eyes in anticipation, waiting for him to kiss her. The moment his lips touched hers, Trent melted into Daria. She could feel the weight of his body pressing against her, pressing her into the wall behind them as their mouths slid against each other in a lingering lip lock, and it was wonderful.

It bore no resemblance whatsoever to the kisses she and Tom had shared, and only then did she realize that she'd never been completely at ease with her ex, with another to compare it to now. Kissing Trent was like lighting a small fire under her feet; something awakened inside, ignited by his lips and hand on her skin. She didn't feel the slightest bit of remorse, or guilt. She simply felt alive.

The couple drew back, drawing deep breaths of the precious air they momentarily forgot they needed. Their eyes met, and Daria could see the banked fire of desire in Trent's eyes. Once upon a time, she might have run from it. But there was a softness as well in his expression, and at least for the moment, she feared nothing.

Daria reached up to stroke the black hair away from Trent's temples, grazing his skin with her nails. The tingling sensation caused him to close his eyes, and rest his forehead against hers. Craving his lips, Daria stood up on tiptoe, pressing her mouth to his. Although surprised that she'd moved first this time, Trent happily lost himself in kissing Daria again.

"Let's go home," Trent suggested the next time they came up for air. He then added quickly, not wanting Daria to think he was a creep after all, "I mean, because we can't really be alone here."

Daria understood, but was still surprised. "But Trent, the party's for _you_ tonight. You _won_ the Battle."

Trent shrugged those slender shoulders, and pulled Daria into a close embrace. "It suddenly doesn't seem all that important now."

Daria melted into Trent, reveling in the warmth of his embrace. Along with her intense elation, she also felt a pang of sadness, remembering that she would be leaving for Raft in three weeks. Determined to not ruin the mood, she pushed it into the back of her mind. "Ok then," she said. "Let's go home."

Trent smiled gently, his heart swelling to a bursting point. "Cool."

The pair left the party behind, returning to the Lane's house alone. Jane stayed behind to hang out with Jessy and the gang. Moonbeams stretched across the floor of the dark house, illuminating their path to Trent's room. They walked hand in hand, enjoying the pleasure of that simple contact. "You can probably find pajamas in Jane's room, if you want," said Trent as they neared closer to his room. For all he cared, she could sleep with her bare skin next to his, but he doubted she wanted that tonight.

"Alright," she said, parting with him to go search his sister's room. He watched her go, unable to hide his smile.

Daria walked into Trent's room, dressed in shorts and her tank top, to find him scratching his head, contemplating the mess on the floor. "I can't find my shorts," he explained. Regarding the disaster area that passed for the floor of his room, Daria wasn't surprised. Luckily, the strewn clothes and objects didn't extend to the bed, which by Lane standards could be considered almost tidy. Picking her way across the carpet carefully, Daria laid down on Trent's soft mattress.

"I don't mind if you sleep in your boxers," she said, thinking back on the last time they'd shared a bed. Trent shrugged, glad to have the go-ahead. He spent a lot of time thinking about what could and couldn't be done with Daria, what would spook her, what wouldn't.

Daria found she enjoyed watching Trent undress, the moon their only light. He pulled his olive green shirt over his head to reveal his sinewy torso. The way the silvered light played over his muscles fascinated Daria in a way that was partly new to her. She liked it.

Clad in his blue and white striped boxers, Trent crawled over her on the bed, smiling down at her. "God, you're beautiful, Daria," he said, leaning down to steal a kiss. She gave no answer, only kissed him back. Experimenting, she traced his torso with her fingertips, dragging fingernails lightly over his ribs and up his spine. Trent shuddered, gooseflesh rising on his skin. Daria had never really seen herself as a woman with the ability to seduce; seeing Trent react to her touch in such a way intrigued her.

Very slowly, Trent settled down on top of Daria, propping himself up with elbows to delve into a deep kiss. She'd loved feeling the weight of his skin against hers when he pressed her into the wall earlier at the Zon; horizontal, it only magnified. It seemed every nook and curve of their bodies fit together perfectly, by way of gravity and physiology. She knew they could test the theory even farther; all she had to do was ask, and she was sure Trent would teach her about anything she wanted to know. Although she still wasn't quite sure that was what she wanted, the growing heat Trent sparked inside her tempted Daria to test the waters.

Daria slid her leg along Trent's, entwining them as they kissed. The motion ground her hips against him in a particular way that felt amazing, and he failed at suppressing a groan. He sat up on his elbows to look down at Daria, studying her expression. Had it been an accident, or was she hinting? Looking in her eyes, he guessed the former. He found it such and enigma that she could be so jaded at times, and yet so inexperienced.

Knowing that keeping their current position wouldn't help him keep his cool, he lifted himself up off her. When Daria looked up at him questioningly, he instructed, "Flip over."

Wondering what he had in mind, but trusting him implicitly, she did. When Trent's slender fingers slid over her back, she realized his intention, and relaxed even farther into the mattress. Trent remembered how she'd reacted the first time he offered a back massage, and decided it to be an innocent and pleasurable mode of contact between them.

Daria smiled to herself as Trent kneaded out the kinks and knots in her muscles, relaxing entirely with her eyes closed. She couldn't see well anyway; her glasses rested on the nightstand. Lulled by Trent's gentle hands, Daria felt herself sliding farther and farther from consciousness. Trent smiled to himself as he noticed her breathing change, breaths longer and deeper. Any one else might have been offended that she'd fallen asleep, but Trent took it as a good omen. It meant she felt entirely at ease with him, and he understood that trust was an essential element for Daria.

"I wasn't asleep," Daria groaned, partially waking as Trent settled down beside her to catch some shut-eye himself.

Trent half coughed, half laughed. "Of course not," he said, pulling her closer. Relishing in the warm scent of Trent's skin, Daria snuggled close, and fell back asleep again in his arms. Content, and for the first time in a long time feeling complete, Trent joined her.


	17. The Sound of Silence

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em, just write about 'em

17. The Sound of Silence

One could have heard a pin drop, in the silence of the Lane family kitchen. After the past whirlwind two weeks, Mystik Spiral waited with bated breath by the telephone. By request of Mr. Murphy of Epic/Immortal records, the band worked like hell to write three more songs the caliber of Quiet Girl. They presented their new creations live to the talent scout and a business associate the night previous. Now after biting their nails for almost twenty-four hours, all that remained was their moment of truth.

They sat at the kitchen table, around a half-eaten pizza. Where usually it would have been devoured in a matter of minutes, the excitedment left the band less ravenous than usual.

Daria, Jane, and Reese entered the house, breaking the heavy silence. They'd been out to a movie, and brought the aroma of popcorn into the kitchen. Jane set the Jumbo Bucket of popcorn down on the table Reese had bought them. "Any word?" she asked, grabbing a slice of the barely touched pizza. Substantial food was hard to come by in the Lane household, and one learned to grab for it quickly at an early age.

The band members all shook their heads no, seeming unwilling to break the silence. Trent and Daria's eyes met across the room, and a small smile played across both of their lips. It wasn't just the band that had had a phenomenal two weeks. Trent and Daria had worked side by side, writing lyrics for Spiral.

Daria felt honored to be included in Spiral's creative processes, and Trent felt lucky to have her creative genius with words backing their work. Writing songs together was an intimate act for the pair, allowing them to see inside each other's minds. They wrote lyrics about everything they could possibly think of, what made them angry with the world, what they want changed, what saddened them, and what made life worth living. Looking back, Daria couldn't imagine any other way they could have bonded more closely.

Trent stood from the table, restless. "We're going to drive ourselves crazy sitting here doing nothing, guys," he said. "We might as well…"

The phone rang, cutting Trent off mid-sentence. Everyone's eyes widened, adrenaline thickening the blood in their veins to syrup.

Because he was already standing, Trent went to answer it, moving slightly faster than his usual snail's crawl.

"Hello?"

Everyone sat quietly, straining to hear the other side of the conversation. "Yes." "Ok." Trent kept his usual straight face, so it was impossible to tell the direction of the conversation. "Sure. We can do that." "No, not really." "Yes, I am." "Ok, thanks. Bye."

Trent hung up the phone. "I hope you guys won't be too disappointed," he said, and the faces of his band members fell. "Because we won't be back in Lawndale for a long time! We're going to California!"

The kitchen suddenly fell into a din of ecstatic chaos, as the band members shouted with surprise and excitement. In a burst of rare energy, he picked Daria up, spinning her light frame around in a circle. It was the most speed she'd ever witnessed him conjure, and she gave a small yip of surprise. Trent set her back down, folding her in a warm embrace. "They want to fly us out to Los Angeles to write some more songs and record!"

Daria and Trent rarely showed affection in public, but this once Daria allowed herself to melt into Trent's embrace. "You guys finally did it," said Daria. This is your break for fame."

"It's a step in the right direction," he agreed. "We're on our way to somewhere."

Later that night found Daria and Trent in his room, enjoying what was left of the time they had together. She sat on top of Trent as they talked about the future. Over the past two weeks, spending nearly every day with him, Daria had loosened up and opened to Trent immensely. She no longer feared contact with him, and loved it when he touched her.

Trent looked up at Daria, his hands propped behind his head. A certain sadness shadowed their joy tonight. Although both were ecstatic for Mystik Spiral's success, they also knew it drew things closer to a certain end. It would be harder for Trent to visit Daria at Raft from California, and near impossible while compiling an album. Not to mention touring to promote it, if things went that far. Best case scenario, Daria thought the soonest they could be together again would be Christmas break, if she flew out to see him in L.A. That seemed eons away.

Ok, so maybe only really about four months. She knew a lot could change in that amount of time. Daria thought about everything that would go with Trent's success, if Mystik Spiral really did make it big. There would be money coming out the cracks of the walls, and pretty women waiting around ever corner. She thought back on the time the modeling agency came to the high school, and Trent popped in to watch the show with she and Jane. How could she compete with that? She didn't want to even try.

Trent noticed a certain sadness behind her eyes, along with the joys of the day's news. "What's wrong, Daria?" he asked, stroking fingers over her knees. The tingling sensation drew a sigh from her. Things were just too good to last, it seemed.

"It's going to be hard to see each other, with you in L.A., and me in Boston."

Trent sat up on his elbows, moving closer to Daria. "Yeah. It seems cruel for us to finally be together, and now be pulled apart again so soon. But that's the way life is. It would be nice if we could pick which dreams come true, and in what order."

Daria nodded, knowing exactly how that tune played. "I'm leaving in two days for Raft," she said. "When that time comes, we'll probably have to…" She couldn't bring herself to say it, but by the sudden soberness in Trent's expression she knew he understood. Maybe they loved each other, but maintaining a long distance relationship wasn't much of an option. In a way, it could strain their relationship more than anything.

"I know," said Trent. "We can still keep in contact though. The thought of completely being without you…scares me."

Trent turned those dark eyes up to meet Daria's in a moment of raw honesty. She could see the pain in his expression, the torment of leaving one dream to chase another. She felt exactly the same way.

Reaching up, Daria brushed Trent's hair out of his eyes. Without gel spiking it back, it curled around his temples. She loved it either way. Trent turned his head to the side, brushing his lips against her wrist. Although she didn't understand how that one small touch could affect her so powerfully, a shot of adrenaline quickened her pulse. Logically, it made little sense. She found that with Trent, things had a slight tendency to work out that way. It was a refreshing change of pace for her normally logic-controlled sympathies.

Craving to be engulfed by the woman before him, Trent sat up completely, leaving only a breath of space between them. "Let's not think about it anymore tonight," he suggested, leaning in to kiss Daria. Once his lips slid across hers in a slow wet kiss, she decided it to be a good idea.


	18. The Long Road

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em, just write about 'em. I guess I should also mention that the song lyrics are also of my own creation.

18. The Long Road

The day they'd dreaded for weeks arrived. The Morgandorffer car sat in their driveway, entirely packed, waiting only for the human element to drive it. The hot August sun beat down, making the Morgandorffer family wait outside the car for Daria to finish her goodbye.

"I have something for you," said Trent, pulling a wrapped box from his pocket. It was haphazardly wrapped and taped in the day's funny paper. It perfectly suited Trent, and Daria smiled, almost not wanting to open it.

"What is it?" she asked, hefting the small gift. It felt suspiciously like a cassette tape.

Trent shrugged his narrow shoulders, classic Lane style. "Just a going away gift for you," he said. "I hope you like it."

Daria nodded grimly, looking forward to listening to it. She slipped it into her back pocket, making a mental note not to sit on it when finally loading into the car. "Thank you, Trent." He took her hands into his, squeezing them gently.

"This may seem like a hell of a time to tell you," said Trent, turning his eyes up from the ground to look at her. Daria's lower lip trembled as she noticed in the corners of his eyes, the silvered drops waiting to fall. "But I want you to know, Daria. I love you." At hearing those words Daria's chest constricted, almost painfully, as if she could physically feel her heart breaking. It triggered an unfamiliar wetness in her eyes, of which she had not felt in what seemed like ages.

With a ragged sigh, Daria stepped in to Trent, wrapping her arms around him. Normally, showing any kind of affection for a man in front of her family would mortify Daria. However, at that moment, she stopped caring.

Trent held her close, breathing deeply, taking in her scent and trying to commit it to memory. He feared forgetting such little details he loved about her, almost as much as losing her. Daria's small frame shook with a silent sob, and he understood how much mental pain she must have been experiencing, to not be able to hold it in. Flat stoicism was an art she'd perfected all her life; it took monumental emotions to pull her out of it.

Because he knew her so well, Trent hadn't expected her to show even this much emotion. He hadn't expected her to reciprocate his oral declaration of love. He didn't need it, because in his heart he knew how she felt. So when Daria turned her head on his shoulder, gently whispering in his ear, "I love you too," the surprise nearly sent him to his knees.

Trent drew back with an almost physical need to see her eyes. She looked up at him mournfully, her pain glittering in her eyes, one single tear rolling down her cheek. He reached up, tenderly brushing away her tear with his thumb. Cupping the side of her face in his hand, Trent leaned down, pressing his lips to hers in a slow, lingering kiss. The way they melted into each other reminded Daria of their first liplock. She didn't want it to ever end.

The Morgandorffer family watched the lovers wide eyed, shocked and dumbfounded by their display of affection. Was this really Daria, the same girl who shied from even something so simple as hugs? Helen found it ironic that even though Daria had been the late-bloomer between her daughters when it came to boys, she'd been the one who found true love first. Quinn opened her mouth, about to erupt with her signature whiny, "Daaariaa!" Helen shot her a glare that would wither an opposing advocate at ten paces. Needless to say, Quinn kept her mouth shut. And what did Jake think? In his simple way, he felt happy for his daughter. He sympathized with her pain, and yet at the same time had a gut feeling that the book of the Lane boy and Daria hadn't closed yet.

For the first time in her life, Daria felt bitterly about leaving for college. She and Trent had watched each other out the back window of the 4-Runner, until distance faded vision. He'd raised his hand to her in a silent final gesture of goodbye, and stood in the middle of the street until he could no longer see the red SUV.

As she watched the leaves rush by in a blur of greens and yellows, Daria flashed back on their last nights together. A small smile played over her lips as she thought of his cool slender fingers sliding over her skin, slipping under her clothes. She'd welcomed the intrusion; Trent's every touch just left her wanting more. Daria had been ready, far more than ready, for Trent to make love to her. He possessed the key attribute of an amazing lover: if there was anything in the world Trent excelled at, it was going slow. She shuddered slightly, remembering the tremors that shook her to the core, brought on by his gentle, patient hands.

True, the actual act in itself hurt terribly; nature's cruel joke on women. But she couldn't imagine anyone else she would have wanted to be her first. Trent had an unmatchable talent for tenderness, for the physical and mental gentleness a woman like Daria required. When they finally fell asleep exhausted in each other's arms, she felt no regrets.

Stopped at a rest stop, Daria climbed into the front seat while the rest of her family stretched their legs and emptied their bladders. She unwrapped the small package Trent gave her, cracked open the case and slid the cassette into the tape player.

It was a simple recording, probably thrown together in his room. Daria could see him sitting on his bed, covers messy, his Alvarez acoustic across his bony knees. She could hear the hollow ring of the body of the guitar thumping against something, him adjusting its position, the strings ringing lightly from an accidental touch. Trent's voice came over the speakers, fuzzy and slightly distorted. "Hey, Daria." He coughed, his usual singular dry hack. "I'm sorry I'm not, ah…good with words and stuff, unless I can sing them. I knew when it came time to say goodbye I wouldn't be able to tell you all the things I feel, so I wrote you another song. I hope I can play it live for you sometime. Uh…yeah. I don't really have a title for this one."

Without any more ado, he strummed out a chord on the acoustic, fingers and pick working in perfect harmony to create a lovely work of art. The notes rang surprisingly clear over the simple recording set up, and Daria found herself smiling contentedly at the sound of his improved playing.

Then his voice came over the speakers, no longer raspy and simple. His singing gave her chills now, and she vaguely wondered where he'd hidden away this talent before focusing on listening to the lyrics.

_Moonlight crawls across your shoulder_

_The softest skin I've ever known_

_Don't move, lover_

_I want to keep this moment forever_

_A part of me no surgeon could sever_

_The beauty of your soul cuts me to the bone_

_Fate told me you'd fly with the turn of the leaves_

_Only memories can last the march of time_

_Its worth the pain of watching you go,_

_Knowing that once, you were mine_

_So I'm alone tonight, with this photograph_

_It's you, and that clever smile_

_Sharp edge of your wit could kill a man, _

_I'd die again and again, _

_Just to breathe you in_

_Fate told me you'd fly with the turn of the leaves_

_Heart screaming, I refuse to believe_

_This is the last stand of you and me_

_I need you, lover, exactly the way you are_

_I hope you know this is true_

_Any other could only take second to you_

More tears in her eyes, Daria snatched the tape out of the deck, climbing back into her seat before her family could return. How had she managed to finally find the one who'd loved her all along, who would never demand her to change, only in time for the fate of their futures to tear them apart again? She stared out the window absently, his words running through her head. Daria realized then, that she felt the same way. _Heart screaming, I refuse to believe this is the last stand of you and me. _


	19. Two Years Past

-119. Two Years Past

Accumulating over the next two years, a rock music storm swept the country. Three hit singles from Mystik Spiral's debut album _Quiet Girl _topped the charts, and album sales skyrocketed, sending it to nearly platinum status in eleven months. Promoting the album on tour with other well known bands, shows sold out nation wide.

Daria entered a shrine to this whirlwind of success, also known as her dorm room. Ironically enough, the posters and other band merch plastering the walls and taking up shelf space did not belong to her, but to her roommate. Shayla claimed to be a hardcore fan, and no doubt she obsessed to bordering an unhealthy degree. However, Daria took great amusement in the fact that she never noticed that more than half the song lyrics on _Quiet Girl_ were credited to Lane/Morgendorfer. Naturally, Daria declined to bring this to her roomie's attention.

Setting down her heavy backpack, Daria perched on the edge of her bed, surveying the walls of their room. It was strange in a way, to have her former lover plastered across the walls, in one instance a life size poster. Posing for a professional promo photo shoot, Trent sat on a brick wall, one knee drawn up, cradling his guitar. Although the ripped-knee jeans stayed, he traded in the faded olive green threads for a black shirt. Black eyeliner intensified his dark eyes, and the singer glared out at the world, successfully portrayed by the PR team as the tormented soul of the group. Daria would admit, he did look like a rock god, and a comely one at that.

Then she looked to her own desk, a much more subtle collection of objects related to the man she had loved. Did love. It was complicated, truthfully. On her shelf with her books and poetry mingled the _Quiet Girl _CD, and all the articles she could find in music magazines about Spiral. A shelf higher sat a seashell and two smooth rocks, beaten down by the waters of time. Trent sent them to her from the California beach, knowing she would appreciate them more than a store-bought souvenir. Kept safely tucked away in her diary rested a picture of she and Trent Jane took, before Daria left for college two years ago. When alone in the room, she would take it out, sometimes staring at it for minutes at a time. Where had the time gone?

Daria couldn't even begin to imagine the conniption fit Shayla would have if she knew her roommate's close connection to her idol. Once, Daria even woke up sweating from a nightmare, dreaming Shayla went through her things, found the letters and postcards Trent wrote her from on the road, and that treasured photograph.

She couldn't count how many times Shayla played track 13, _Ode To D.M._, and listened to her squeal in a way that alarmingly reminded her of Quinn. It was their parting song, one of the best lyrical tracks on the album. "I'd die again and again, just to breathe you in," Shayla would giggle, speaking to her posters of Trent and Jesse, with no idea that the D.M. sat just across the room typing at her desk. It was the strange, anti-social brain who had inspired such passion and creativity in the rock star's heart.

Two years had passed since Trent had written that song. Heart wrenchingly, their every attempt to see each other since then had been thwarted. Art was the fullest extent to which they remained connected: Daria lived in Trent's life through his music, and he in hers through her writings. Plans to visit were constantly thwarted, from all sides. Daria's college and Trent's career did not seem to allow for something as silly as love. Letters were written, phone calls made, but failed to satisfy.

Though communication still endured, she would admit that it was becoming fewer and more far in-between. Painful, perhaps, but to be expected. Two whole years separated them. Two seems to be such a mundane number. Merely one and one. But two years is twenty-four months, or seven hundred and thirty days. Each of which sent both of them barreling onwards to new destinations, new perspectives. New selves. Daria feared that could Trent have stood before her at that very moment, they barely would have know each other.

How had their experiences since their last meeting colored their souls? Daria thrived in academia, and Trent seemed to do no less in the music world. Her grades, as of her high school years, never dipped below an A. Her writing bloomed; poetry and prose flowed from her pen, filling notebook upon notebook, and so much space on her hard drive. Time passed and she grew into her own skin more and more, changing, learning. Could she even say she was the same person, as that girl of two years ago?

Daria had known other lovers, and surely he had as well. It took some getting used to, but Daria found over the years that in such an academic setting, she wasn't such a freak. There were many men interested in her, for the power of her mind. Among others, there was Graham, quiet and contemplative, the poet who she dated and caffeinated with every now and then, and Stephen, the diabolical political science major whose schemes to take over a small country someday made her smile.

True, there had been other men, but Daria found herself steering clear of entangling herself in a relationship. In a commitment. In great part, it derived from her desire to remain independent, free, unchanged by another's ego and another's demands upon her time and soul. She heard so many argue around her, so many fight and claw and attempt to force that which was not meant to be. It helped her appreciate the miracle she and Trent had shared, but at the same time, she wondered what would have happened, once past the glowing first few months of their love? What little habits of his would drive her insane, and vice versa? Wasn't it inevitable? The boredom, of having explored every nook and cranny of another's soul. The disappointment, of finding out your perfect lover is just another human being after all. She cringed at the thought of feeling such things for Trent, finding she preferred the deception of mystery.

Daria studied the poster of Trent upon the wall; it was attractive, but not real. And how had the years touched him? Had two years in the real music world, competitive and vicious, left Trent a jaded man? Fame wielded the power to change even the strongest personality, and not always for the better. Even though Trent sounded like his normal self on the phone and in writing, that worm of apprehension still wiggled in her brain. What if he took his new image for granted? What if it made him arrogant, vain, or full of himself? What if the Trent she'd loved lost himself in a sea of fortune and screaming fans? She didn't even want to think of all the groupies throwing themselves at him, day in and day out. Maybe he never mentioned it, (why would he?), but Daria felt sure it happened constantly.

Or perhaps he was quite well adjusted. Perhaps he'd taken everything in stride, slowly, in moderation...the complete antithesis of rock star ethic. Daria rolled her eyes at herself. It was stupid to think he hadn't indulged in everything he possibly could. That was part of the fun of success, wasn't it? It was all conjecture. Those were fragments of truth she did not receive in letters, or on the phone. But she did not resent this; in truth, what right did she have to them? Though reluctantly, they had parted ways the day she left in her parent's SUV to return to RAFT. The rest was left to fate.

_I refuse to believe this is the last stand of you and me _echoed in her mind. Oh yes, it still inspired a twinge, a pang. An undeniable longing, for the lover she'd known long ago. Be that as it may, thus far, fate just seemed to have it in for them.

Shrugging her thoughts off, Daria grabbed up her money and keys, heading out to meet Jane for lunch. Many things had changed, but thankfully, her friendship with Jane was not one of them. What could beat pizza on the quad with her best friend? Not much. Old habits die hard.


	20. Twilight Zone?

20.

"Look at that crowd of people over there," said Jane, nodding to their far left. They'd taken their slices out to the quad, and sat down on the grass to enjoy the warm spring sunlight and cool breeze.

Daria turned her attention to the crowd of people, raising her eyebrows in surprise and curiosity. "What are they crowding around?" she wondered, swallowing her last bite of pizza.

"Don't know. Want to go see?" A small smirk curled up the corner of Jane's red lips as she looked back at the crowd. Strangely, it seemed to slowly be moving in their direction.

"Not really," Daria answered truthfully, finding the thought of joining in the throng of people less than thrilling. Although she would admit, she was curious. However, she figured all would reveal itself eventually, with a little patience. Anything drawing that kind of attention would be gossiped about in class.

"Are you sure you don't want to go see?" pestered Jane, looking on as the group inched their way towards them from across the quad. "You just might, Daria. You never know."

"Why?" The needle of Daria's suspicion meter slowly began to rise towards red.

"I dunno," shrugged Jane. She stood from her seat on the lawn. "Come on, Daria, let's go check it out.

"Aw mom, do we gotta?" sighed Daria. Under Jane's insistent gaze, she finally got to her feet, her back to the crowd.

"Stop groaning, soldier."

"It's probably just the Christian Student Union giving out free cooler cups for signing on to their mailing list. They trap you like that, you know."

Jane's eyes cut to a point behind Daria momentarily, raising her suspicions tenfold. "What are you¾" Daria stopped mid-speech, turning towards the direction Jane had fixed her attention. She found she could only watch as a figure she knew well ducked away from the crowd, and crossed the grass in their direction quickly on long legs.

Although he walked with more speed than usual, it seemed Daria's vision switched to slow motion while watching his approach. Their eyes locked, and Daria suddenly could hear her own heart thundering in her chest. Without uttering so much as _hello_ when he reached her, Trent leaned down to press his lips to Daria's in a slow, passionate kiss. By the way the lovers melted into each other, one would never guess the years and miles that had separated them.

It seemed the entire campus grew silent with shock, not only surprised to see the rock star Trent Lane gracing their campus without publicized warning, but also kissing the bookworm Daria Morgendorffer as if she were a suffocating man's last breath of oxygen. Was it a prank? Had Raft slipped into the Twilight Zone?

Daria and Trent finally broke away long enough to catch their breaths. They smiled at each other in their characteristically similar ways, foreheads pressed together. "God I missed you, Daria," whispered Trent. He swayed slightly, limbs feeling shaky from nerves, anticipation, and the pure excitement of finally seeing the woman he loved again. He leaned into the hand she held against his cheek, planting a gentle kiss upon her slender wrist.

"I missed you too," said Daria, closing her eyes to hide the sudden stinging of tears felt in her tear ducts and behind her eyes. Trent was not the only one between them feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Daria took in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Trent. It hadn't changed, and god how she'd missed that exhilarating medley of sandalwood and clean skin.

"Show me your dorm room," requested Trent, noticing the crowd no longer stood watching so surprised, and had begun to encroach upon them once again. "We need to talk."

Thinking of her Mystik Spiral obsessed roommate, Daria contemplated the equation for disaster. Finally, she decided it would be ok for a little while; Shayla usually wouldn't return from afternoon classes for a couple more hours.


	21. How Am I Ever Not Myself?

-121.

**It's been at least more than a year since my last posting on this fic. Though my love of Daria has not faded, I found it so difficult to get back into writing this, stuck on where to go, and being in a totally different frame of mind from when I first began. Perhaps it is more fitting now to pick the second part up two years later, as Daria herself has aged and wizened during two trips around the sun. I hope you enjoy the direction I've decided to take this. **

**I've rewritten/added parts to chapter 19. I would suggest going back to read that again, as it sets a better framework for the new direction. And without further ado...**

How Am I Ever Not Myself?

At seeing the shrine to himself made up of posters and band memorabilia strewn across Shayla's side of the room, Trent raised his eyebrows. "I hear all about you from my roommate," said Daria deadpan. "I think she's memorized everything about you from your band's web page."

Trent gave a soft chuckle, and fingered the seashell upon her shelf, remembering his search of the beach for something special, just for her. She watched him examine her private world from the foot of her bed, arms crossed. The reality of finally having him here before her felt strange; she'd imagined the moment so many times, playing it over and over in her head. Dreaded it as much as hungrily anticipating it. How did it compare to her fantasies? She couldn't compare it, she realized. It simply was and would be.

Trent turned to face Daria, a small but warm smile curling his lips. "I like your side of the room," he complimented. It seemed almost too good to be true, to be so near her again. Neither phone calls nor writing truly satisfied.

He wanted to scoop her up in his arms, and never let her go again. So why were they just standing there in her miniscule dorm room, staring at each other like strangers? Their gazes were questioning, evaluative. Asking with their eyes, _who are you now?_

"Are you sure you want to talk here?" Daria asked, looking around her dinky dorm room. "Shayla could be back soon..." The unspoken implications of the reaction of such a rabid fan to finding her favorite tormented guitarist in her dorm room rang through the silence. Daria mused that should Shayla chance upon the object of her lust and undivided adoration, she would either die of a conniption fit, or assault Trent for a lock of hair.

Trent had experienced his share of such fan-girls; where at times it was hard not to get caught up in the frenzy, the fun of someone admiring him like a god on earth, he'd soon found out that it was an interaction that could only end in emptiness, feeling used, and even more alone than before.

"Where do you want to go?" asked Trent, agreeing that maybe somewhere else would be better than his initial suggestion. However, he would admit that he was curious about the place where Daria lived, the same way he was curious about everything about her. Everything she cared to share with him seemed like a precious treasure, a golden act of trust.

Finally Daria approached him, a troubled look written upon her face. "I don't know," she answered, racking her brains for a solution to their dilemma. Her favorite coffee house? A restaurant? A walk in the park? None of it afforded the privacy she craved at that moment. She wanted Trent all to herself, and such a thing was difficult to coordinate as a college student.

Cool fingers slid along her jaw line, drawing Daria out of her brown study to turn her gaze upwards. Unable to resist, Trent stepped in to kiss her once more, the feeling of her soft lips sending a shudder through his rail-thin frame. "We could go to my hotel suite..." he offered. Once upon a time, Daria would have blanched at the thought, but now it sounded perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"Agreed."

Daria stared up into Trent's piercing dark eyes, feeling he could lay her bare with just a look. Strip her of her defenses to see the true Daria buried deep inside. It frightened her, that even after two years apart he could have that power. _Here we are _she wanted to say. _So please don't hurt me._

Leaning in for another brush of lips, the pair was interrupted by a horrifying sound: the turning of the doorknob. Like deer in the headlights, they stared as the door swung open, revealing the so feared Spiral-obsessed roommate.

"What's up, Daria?" she piped, flouncing into the room with a heavy red backpack. Her dyed black hair was pulled back in tight high pigtails. Perhaps too tight, in Daria's opinion; her wide blue eyes seemed pulled back in an expression of permanent surprise.

"Um...not much." Shayla walked past without so much as a glance at Trent. Unconsciously, the couple began slowly inching towards the door.

"I heard there was a Trent Lane impersonator on campus. Ha. The shit student government thinks up to amuse us, right?" She looked up from her backpack to size Trent up in a glance. "Not bad, but the hair's not quite right," she babbled. "And the hole in the knee of your jeans needs to be bigger. I guess you're a friend of Daria's. I'm Shayla, what's your name?"

Trent blinked, utterly taken aback. "Uh..."

"We have to go, Shayla," said Daria, grabbing her bag in one hand and Trent's arm in the other. "Catch you later."

Safe on the other side of the door, Daria made a grimace of true horror. "I think we just escaped that one scott free."

Trent looked back towards the room blankly, still shell shocked. "Did she just tell me I don't look like me?"

"It's always a shock the first few times. You'll get over it."

Trent smiled, covering his signature hybrid cough-laugh with a hand, delighted to find her humor had not changed. "Yeah...Let's get out of here," he said, lacing his fingers in Daria's.

"I'm resisting the temptation to run screaming as we speak."

**OOOOOOOOOOOOO**

"How long are you here?" asked Daria, running fingers through soft raven hair.

"Only a few days. Then we're off to New York."

"How did you convince them to stop?"

"I threatened to jump off the bus and hitchhike."

Trent listened to Daria's laugh, deep in the cavity of her chest. He lay with long limbs curled around her, head upon her soft breast. He felt that ghost of a sensation running through him, a desire to never be out of reach of her fingertips again.

A glance around the room told an interesting story of the evening. A room service cart with half eaten food sat neglected and cold across the room. A guitar rested not far from that, the result of Trent playing a song from the band's next album in progress. And a trail of clothes led from there across the floor, starting with Trent's black t-shirt and ending with Daria's bra at the foot of the bed.

Feeling lethargic and satiated, at least for the moment, Trent traced lazy circles around the soft flesh of Daria's stomach. He thought back to a time long ago, dropping into a seat next to Janey and Daria in the Lawndale High auditorium, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the strange supermodel gig Ms. Li had contracted/concocted. He'd had no idea at the time, that the woman he would truly ache for in the depths of his soul was sitting not a seat away. The girl with the glasses and the genius IQ.

So here they were. Many years down the road from that day, even from their last embrace. And still, they found themselves in each other's arms once again; that had to stand for something, didn't it? Upon arrival to his suite they'd sat in the plush chairs by the window and talked for hours; perhaps time and distance and many changes had separated them, yet still they clicked. That kind of connection was precious, wasn't it? Wasn't it worth more than power, or status or ego?

He knew one thing. He never wanted to be apart from her for such a long time again.

Trent had had similar fears to Daria's, of losing her to a man the complete opposite of himself. Where she couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealous albeit false inadequacy next to a blonde bombshell made for a music video, Trent found himself fearing a bookish scholar who could run circles around his intellect. Trent wasn't shallow. He was musical, sensitive, introspective...but he could not discuss the finer points of the Brante sisters, or the mystery of DaVinci's Saint Anne, and he knew it. There weren't many rock stars who felt threatened by book worms, but not many rock stars had a girl as special as Daria at stake.

"Do you still love me, Daria?" he found himself asking, point blank. He had to know, he needed to hear it.

Daria blinked, not expecting such an abrupt inquiry. Of course she did, though in the same way she had? That was difficult. She had changed, it was inescapable. Thus it was only natural for her love to change as well, wasn't it? Still, she answered truthfully, "I still love you, Trent. Do you still love me?"

A groan escaped from deep in his throat, and Trent wrapped his arms around Daria, rolling and pulling her into him. Laying against his narrow chest, Daria found comfort in listening to the steady beat of his heart. "Always," he whispered like a prayer, pressing lips to her forehead. "I don't want to be without you ever again."

Daria felt her heart jumpstart, pattering about in her chest like a nervous bird. _Please don't ask me to marry you_, she found herself pleading silently. "Oh?" she asked cautiously.

"You should move to California with me. You and Janey. You both could finish school there. I've got more than a million dollars in my bank account now, Daria, I would pay for it all, if you would just come."

There was a note of something Daria hadn't quite recognized before in Trent's voice. Slightly desperate, and definitely lonely. Her heart ached, thinking she caused him such pain, intentionally or not. He wanted to bring what was respectively his whole family back with him; his closest sister, his truest love. Perhaps even in a way he hoped to recreate those joyful days of terrorizing Lawndale together...but L.A. was a lot bigger. Different. Things could never be the same again.

Daria found tears welling in her eyes at the thought. Closing her eyes, she willed them back, and at least for the moment, won the battle. "I'm touched, Trent, but you know, we're both nearly done with our junior years here. I can't just drop my life, everything I've built, this close to finishing," she said calmly, tactfully. Inside, she was screaming, at both Trent and herself. One side of her _did _want to drop everything to join him. And another, the logical, grounded, even stubborn, Daria, declared the very idea of uprooting herself was ludicrous.

"Is that...all?" he asked hesitantly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." Trent fought within himself, for the right words, and for the courage to ask for the painful truth. "I mean, do you have someone else? Here? That you want to stay with?"

Daria felt her eyes widening with alarm. She didn't want to discuss this now. She just wanted to laze in Trent's arms, maybe make love again, and forget there even _was _a world outside this room. And yet, she knew it took a lot of courage to ask, and so she felt she owed him an honest answer.

Damn.

"I guess I have other guys here I care about. But mostly I'm being selfish, in that this just isn't the best time in my life to move across the country."

"How many other guys?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

Now that was a loaded question. "There are a couple that I date," Daria grumbled.

"Date? But not boyfriends?" Strangely enough, Trent didn't sound jealous. Interested, but not jealous.

"No. No boyfriends since you."

With something of a smug smile, Trent rolled to lean over Daria. His long fingers swept across her temple, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. "Mmm. You're afraid." He said it so nonchalantly, so matter of factly, that Daria had the urge to wipe that smile right off his face. He knew her so well, even after all this time. In a way, a strange little way pushed back in a dark corner of her heart, she resented that. "You're afraid of change. Of things changing you," he elaborated. "So no boyfriends, and no moving to California. Is that it?"

Daria narrowed her eyes, not exactly appreciating being the one under the microscope. "No moving to California, because I have a life in Boston."

"You could have a life in L.A. You could have a life anywhere." Trent leaned down, kissing the tip of her nose. "Think about that." His lips brushed hers, lulling her eyes shut. "And give me an answer soon."

Even as Trent plied her with kisses, causing Daria to arch against him and sigh, she couldn't help but be annoyed. Hadn't she just given him an answer? She decided not to think on it any more tonight. Who knew if it would be their last?

"I love you, Daria," he whispered against the sensitive skin of her neck. She believed him. But as she grew older, the more she realized, it wasn't always enough.


	22. The Well Adjusted Chic

-1**22. The Well-Adjusted Chick**

The next few days passed in a whirlwind of joy. In utterly anti-Daria style, homework was ignored, even class skipped, to spend more time with Trent. In an effort to at least make some use of the time lost visiting Trent's little girlfriend, the band's manager had corralled them into a cd signing at a music store, and an impromptu concert their last night in Boston, on the quad at RAFT.

Daria had personally received _thank you's _and _way to go's _all over campus. It was a notoriety she could have done without. So much for "there goes Daria Morgandorffer, the one who will rock the world of modern American literature as we know it...". Now, she was Trent Lane's chic. And she resented that, more than a little.

Now that the storm had passed, Daria sat in her favorite caffeination-hole with a latte and her notebook, contemplating the unreal events that had just taken place. Last night she'd seen Trent off, watched him stolen away by that villainous tour bus, driving off into the smog-filled horizon for New York.

"I hear you've been kissing rock stars, Miss Morgandorffer. I didn't think you the type."

Much to Daria's surprise, Graham dropped down into the seat before her. His blue eyes danced with a teasing light. At least it wasn't jealousy, she found herself thinking. She studied her poet on again off again beau. Longish dirty blond hair hung over his eyes, brushed his collar, and scruff of a beard two shades darker than his hair dusted his cheeks. He was a handsome man, though decidedly the opposite of Trent's swarthy looks, tattoos and pierced ears.

Daria shrugged off his teasing quip. "I'm afraid I knew Mr. Lane when he was just a wee musician, sir. Long before rock stardom."

An eyebrow raised, and something clicked in those quick blue eyes. "You're the Quiet Girl," he said softly, almost as though in awe of his own realization. Daria could tell that as usual, Graham had been floating along in his own little world, not paying much attention to the gossip that had gripped the campus. She appreciated the fact that he was the last one to realize her secret identity.

"Tis I." Daria shifted uneasily. It felt too strange, discussing the love of her life with another man she was at least quite fond of.

Graham nodded, lips pressed together thoughtfully. "Well, at least he knows you then."

"I suppose."

This caused the poet to laugh. "Or maybe not. I'm always finding out something new about you, Daria. You never let anyone completely in."

"Careful. Reveal too many of my devious tactics, and you shant be allowed to live." She smiled at him mournfully from behind her latte, taking a sip.

"Alright, Mona Lisa. I give up for now." Graham stood from his chair, and pecked Daria on the cheek. "See you around." Daria watched his corduroy clad form slip out the doorway. Though she liked Graham, and Steven, and all the others, she knew if forced to make the choice, she would have thrown them to the wind for Trent. So why had she made the decision she had?

Daria thought back on the night before, riding in a limousine with Trent back to the hotel, after the concert. "If three years ago I had to guess ten things I would do in college, making out with a rock star in his limousine wouldn't have been one of them," had joked Daria, sighing as Trent kissed her neck.

"We could do this a lot more often," he'd pointed out. She had not yet mentioned again her thoughts on his offer, and he couldn't help but prod her. In less than an hour he would be on that bus, driving away to another sold out stadium, high on a yes or heartbroken with a no.

"Trent..." she'd sighed, having hoped to avoid this conversation for a little longer. Always, please, just a little longer.

She'd given his proposal thought. Much thought. Enough thought that at times she felt certain her brain would explode. Of course she wanted to be with Trent. Of course she wanted to be happy with him, share life. All those gooey things lovers do, that they could fall into.

And yet, Daria Morgandorffer found that she simply could not. All the good things sounded _so _good, perfect even. But she knew it was an oversimplification. Even in a way, a big fat lie. She and Trent had known passion, in the first shiny moments of their relationship, and the scintillating rush of renewing old love just experienced in the first few days.

But they had not experienced the wear of time yet. The test, of how truly compatible they could be, when all their ugly little secrets worked their way out of the closet to dance. But who knew? At the rate Daria revealed herself, they could be in their nineties and Trent would still be surprised...Daria groaned with the thought. Surely it wouldn't be that bad. She'd exposed more of herself to Trent in the short time they had, than to anyone else, possibly excepting Jane.

Losing him that first time had cut her, so deeply. And here was the chance to open up those stitches, be torn to pieces, all over again. So maybe it did all boil down to fear. Oh yes, she was afraid, and as well she should have been. How many women with bright futures squandered their potential to follow their boyfriends somewhere, get married, and have 2.5 kids for lack of a better idea? She didn't think she and Trent would turn out exactly like that, but it could be similar. Frighteningly similar, and she didn't want that woman to be her.

Deep down, Daria knew she would never forgive herself, if she revoked her own dreams to follow a man. Even if it was Trent.

For those reasons, and many more darting through her mind all at once, she'd told Trent, "I can't. I love you, but I just can't leave everything. I'm sorry."

Daria watched Trent's face fall, and knowing she'd caused it, felt as though she'd been stabbed in the heart with a dagger. "Oh, Daria," he sighed, pulling her closer. "I have success, money, I have a huge house, I have a car that doesn't spontaneously burst into flames...but all I _really_ want is you."

"In that case, why don't _you _uproot and move _here_ then?" she found herself grumbling against his chest, even while she held him tighter. Her chest had begun to clench deep inside, the tell-tale beginnings of sobs she didn't want to let fly at all, much less in the back of Trent's limousine.

"Because I work in California," he insisted. "That's where my job is. That still feels strange to say...but it's true."

_Fine, you work there_, thought Daria. But it was still the same old story. Same old tune. Boy and Girl meet, Boy and Girl fall in love, Girl moves in with Boy. She hated the very formula of it, the very predictability. She didn't want to ride on his success, his identity. Forever be known as Trent Lane's girlfriend, lover, wife, whatever. She wanted to follow her own path, march to her own drummer. She wanted her own independence, her writing to take off...things that were hers, wholly and completely. She would never forgive herself for forsaking those things. So many women did it in a wild gesture of love and abandon...and later regretted it horribly. She would learn from their mistakes.

"You can't just swoop down like my dark rock star prince and expect to totally sweep me off my feet, expect me to abandon my life and everything I've built for myself, to go live happily ever after in California. This isn't a song."

Trent smiled sadly, running his fingers through her hair. She noticed his hands were trembling, ever so slightly. Now twist the knife, counterclockwise, she thought to herself. "I never said anything about happy ever after. My world is just as real as yours, Daria. It's just a matter of how you see it. Perception and all. This is a song, and we're only in the first stanzas, I think. We just need a chorus."

"And then my least favorite part: the refrain," Daria grumbled. The end, the repetition. They too would fall into that if they let themselves, the way everyone else did. They were bound to disappoint each other sometime, and the thought of destroying something so perfect with ugly reality perhaps frightened Daria more than anything. Life, real life, could be so bitter, ruin so much. Please not this, she thought to herself. Ruin anything but this.

"You're trying to end this before it's really even begun. We have so much ahead of us...so much that could be. But it won't, if you run."

"Trent..." she groaned.

"I'm serious, Daria. I know you're afraid, and so am I. You're afraid we'll be fifty years old and hating each other, tired of each other, driven crazy by every thing the other does. It might happen. But so what? What we have now is all we will ever have for certain. Where we end up won't matter so much, as long as we enjoyed the ride."

The tightness in Daria's chest increased its grip, causing her to shake with the effort to hold her tears at bay. "Ride with me, Daria," he whispered into her ear.

"I'm not the only girl you'll ever love," she found herself choking out, voice barely raised above a whisper.

"But you're the only girl I'll ever love, like I love you."

With that, Daria couldn't take it any more. The dam broke, even if her resolve did not. They'd cried together in the back of the limousine, left to climb out twenty minutes later with betraying red puffy eyes.

"I'm not giving up on you yet," he'd said, cupping the sides of her face as though she were made of precious porcelain. He'd given her no chance for reply, ducking down for one last soul-searing kiss, whilst the rest of the band called from the bus for him to hurry up. They could tell the way things had gone by the way the lovers looked at each other, with such intense sorrow written around their eyes.

Recounting the night previous in her mind, Daria resisted the urge to lay her head down in her hands and cry. But she'd had plenty of that in the past night and wee hours of the morning. The red-rims of her eyes even then told the story of her woe.

Even still, though it hurt terribly at the moment, she did not regret her decision. Her time with Trent inspired a scintillating rush, no doubt. It took a lot of courage to open up to him, especially for her. But perhaps in a way, it took even more bravery to rely on oneself. To be alone, to be comfortable in one's own skin. She was getting there. Maybe someday, she would arrive where she wanted to be.

_You know better than that, Morgandorffer, _she scolded herself. She knew by now that one never _gets there_. That illusive end destination. That perfection and ultimate satisfaction that always lay somewhere just over the horizon. Seeming in reach, but never quite. It kept things more interesting for her, didn't it? Depressing at times, but more and more, mostly interesting. Who knew what the future could hold? Trent had sworn he wasn't giving up on her yet...and in truth, she wasn't giving up on him either. Biding her time, more like. There was just so much to do in life. So very much to do.

_So much for the misery chick, _she thought, taking a sip of her latte. Well, _the well adjusted chick _just didn't have the same ring to it, did it?


	23. Power of the Word

-1**23. Power Of The Word**

"I can't believe we survived," said Jane, still seemingly in a daze from the senior year rush. Where had the time gone? It seemed only just yesterday, that Daria had fought to convince her to apply to BFAC...and now, here they were, graduated. Jane's senior exhibition had rocked the college with flying colors, a show that would be talked about by faculty and students for years to come.

Daria too had had a great last year, though she felt she couldn't exactly say where the time had gone. She remembered the excitement of her first A on her first college level essay, and now here she was, degree in hand, printed _Daria Morgandorffer, Bachelor's of Literature. _Wasn't it supposed to qualify her for something? Wasn't she supposed to be ready for _the real world _now?

However, like most other college graduates, Daria felt bewildered as to what to do next. And the best answer to that, for a mind so fine as hers, was grad school.

"I second the motion," agreed Daria, raising a slice of celebratory pizza high.

"So what now?"

"Grad school, I guess. And you?"

"Bout the same. A BFA about qualifies me for serving lattes at our local Starbucks, but not much else." And it was true. Jane felt amazed by her preconceptions of the art world, as a young high school painter, and all she'd learned up to that point. She now knew that Trent's adage of "those who cannot do teach" did not exactly apply to the world of fine art. More precisely, it was only the best of the best who did teach, supporting themselves as artists with a check from a university payroll, winning patronage from leading galleries...the politics boggled her mind. But it seemed inescapable, and if that was what it took to continue doing what she loved, then she would teach. And to teach, she needed a master's.

Well, taking two more years to fine tune her work even further didn't exactly sound bad...it was the student loans that were nasty. Luckily, she just happened to have a brother with millions of dollars in his checking account. "Call it a graduation present," he'd said. "Want a car too?"

Mystic Spiral's second album had been nearly as successful as their first. The band found there was gold to be had in angsty lyrics and black eyeliner...as many artists do, Jane suspected Trent did his best work when seemingly miserable. And as the Lane family's first multi-millionaire, Trent was incredibly generous. _What else am I going to spend it on?_ he would say to Jane, after sending her checks for art supply binges at Dick Blick.

"Are you really thinking of going to grad-school in California?" prodded Jane.

Daria regarded Jane quietly, considering what to say at this point. She stood in a strange position at times, or at least felt as though she did. Jane was her best friend, and yet Daria wondered how Jane could go on without being angry at Daria, for seemingly being the source of her brother's angst. "I'm considering it," said Daria. "I--"  
"Wait! That's Trent!" exclaimed Jane, jumping for the remote to turn up the volume. Ever since Mystic's great success, Jane had a habit of streaming VH1 in hopes of catching a glimpse of her brother, when not watching Sick Sad World.

Transfixed, Jane and Daria watched the screen. That was Trent, alright. Cameras flashed and microphones assaulted the rock star, along with the lady on his arm. A voice droned _Trent Lane and his new found love, Monique, of the Harpies attended the screening of Tim Burton's new film _When Ravens Fly _on Saturday night. Look out, Quiet Girl. They seem smitten._

Daria watched in shock, her heart falling to her feet. Well, this was bound to happen, wasn't it? She'd been expecting it, knew it would...but Monique? Anyone but Monique, it seemed, would have lessened the blow.

"Whore," growled Jane, turning off the TV. "Daria, I'm sure it's just..."

Daria raised an eyebrow, staring down at her pizza slice. "So as I was saying, I'm thinking about going to grad school in New York."

**OOOOOOOOO**

In a foul mood, Trent stalked the halls of his mansion on the hill. Vast, high ceilinged halls, wide rooms filled with expensive furniture. All this stuff, _this useless stuff, _and no one to share it with, he mused mournfully. Well, it wasn't as though he hadn't tried.

_Daria's going to New York. _The fact hurt even more so now that he knew she had been considering coming to California. Finally. Jane had told him in a fit of excitement she simply could not contain. Even now, Jane couldn't restrain her inner yenta.

Well, she _had _been considering California, until seeing that damn blurb on TV. The rumors flew. Of course they flew, how couldn't they? He should have known they would, by now. He'd certainly had enough time to learn the way things worked. The power games, the politics. Someone was always out to get something from him, it seemed. He was beginning to understand how if an artist wasn't crazy yet going into the biz, they would get there eventually.

Monique had come to him, she and the band having just moved to L.A. _Let's get together for old time's sake_ she'd said. Why not, he'd thought? Truth be told, for a man who was supposedly adored by millions, Trent Lane felt very alone.

So they had. He'd invited her to the movie premiere. It was just fun, right? Old friends, a night out on the town. At some point in the night Trent had discovered what he feared but hoped to not be the case: Monique fully intended to use him. Yet another to add to the list. Some things never change.

But the damage was already done, it seemed. After the tabloids and gossip shows had made up their stories, run their blurbs, invaded his life in their vulturine manner...here he was, just as alone as before.

Trent had found that the highlight of his month had been his parent's coming to visit. They'd looked around his house in awe...he supposed they never expected the slacker son to be the child to make something of himself. Not that his parents were the type of people to measure success by the things one owned. Demonstrating just that, one night his mother had taken his hand, as they looked out over the valley.

"You have all this stuff," she'd said, in her characteristically understanding way. "But do you have what you need?"

"I'm working on it, Mom," he'd said, smiling down at her. It was nice to have her here, and Dad. He could count the times on one hand he could remember them being home, in those last years in the Lawndale house. It could have been nice, to have them home more. To have real parents...but what did it matter now? They were all grown...and at least he and Jane seemed to have made it out ok. Well, sane as was to be expected, at least.

Collapsing in a chair in the living room, Trent found himself opening a drawer, drawing out a well loved scrap of paper. It had been torn, stained, rumpled from living in his back pocket for the next few months after receiving it in the mail...it was worth more than gold, as far as he was concerned. It was a letter. He and Daria had taken to writing snail mail to one another, at her initiation. Though not as quickly convenient as email or the phone, Trent found he loved it perhaps more.

To have this scrap of paper, tangible, filled with the slanted graceful letters spelling out Daria's thoughts and triumphs and disappointments just for him. There was a strength to her writing, even evident in her correspondence. She would go far, he had no doubt. The literary world wouldn't know what hit it, once she got her start. She'd already published some short stories in literary journals. She'd sent him copies, and he'd devoured them over and over, hungry for a piece of her.

Despite of these correspondences, hope was running thin these days. Time passed, seemingly not bringing Daria any closer than before. _Maybe someday I'll have you, just the way I want you_, he mused. It sounded like a song. Jumping up, he made his way to his studio, knowing better than to let the moment of inspiration pass. _Maybe someday our love can be more than a song_. Strangely, his enduring love of Daria, his longing, had made him a rich man. He still hoped that someday, he could actually share it with her in more than words.

Words. The power of words. Trent mused on the connection both he and his love felt for the written word, whether in lyrical verse or essay form. It was a topic he'd thought on quite a lot as of late, and he'd determined that part of Daria's attraction to prose was the control factor. Writing, Daria could slip into her own little world, where it was safe and all the characters did _exactly _as she pleased...no variables, no natural disasters, lest _she _decided to put her characters through a crisis with underlying metaphorical significance, that could end well or horribly, as she decreed.

With a groan, Trent picked up his acoustic. Was it really power she wanted? Yes, but not over him, or everyone else. It seemed the thing Daria cared most to have control of, was her _own_ destiny. A cynical laugh escaped him as he strummed a G. _Good luck with that one, babe_, he thought to himself. Because in his experience, in a way, it seemed that one's own destiny was the thing one retained the _least _control over.


	24. Like A Rolling Stone

-1**24. Like A Rolling Stone**

"So let me get this straight. The man's been a recluse, for at least half a year. As far as anyone knows, he hasn't even left his house. He's refused to talk to journalists, TV reporters, even his own sister...what makes you think he's going to talk to you?"

Daria folded a shirt, placing it in her suitcase carefully, ignoring Tom's cynical tone. "It's already been arranged," she said, whilst doing a mental inventory of her suitcase. "If I get to L.A. and Trent refuses to talk to me too, it's not my dime wasted on the plane ticket."

"Right. Free trip to L.A. on Rolling Stone's dime. That's why you're going," he said with an eye roll.

Crossing her arms, Daria turned to face Tom. "Someone's feeling particularly acidic today."

Some may have tried to blame the mood on the city itself. New York didn't make for the most friendly place in the world to live in. But Daria had known Tom long enough...it wasn't the city. It wasn't the cloudy day outside, it wasn't the rain. It wasn't even the workload at the office, even though running the Sloane empire wasn't exactly a piece of cake, the way she understood it. It was jealousy, plain and simple. Were the man not right in front of her, Daria might have chortled with the thought, because he had no right to it.

And how was it that Tom Sloane found himself in Daria's bedroom, in her 14th floor loft apartment, watching her pack? Well, the simple answer was that it was his lunch break.

The more complex explanation, however, lay mostly in the realm of pure chance. It didn't seem terribly likely that two acquaintances would bump into each other on the street, in a city of more than eight million souls. But they had, and in a rain storm, no less. On a lark the former lovers ducked into a coffeehouse to escape the deluge. Quite unexpectedly, and perhaps even unnecessarily, Tom had apologized to Daria almost immediately after sitting down with their grande macchiatos, for trespasses _long_ aged.

Even years later, Tom had still found himself thinking of her, of what had gone wrong, and what he should have known better to do differently. Had he really tried to treat her like a sorority girl, the way he interacted with other females at Bromwell? No wonder that summer had exploded in his face. So many years later, Tom found running into Daria still moved him like a slap. _Still_, he craved her company. Her snarky wit, her cutting view of the world as they knew it.

This time, he didn't want to screw it up. Especially now, he realized just how unique a woman like Daria was. More than ever, he appreciated her unapologetic nature. Her reluctance to conform, her refusal to change for anyone. Where so many others had sank, she'd managed to make it work.

Aside from an editing job that was simply bread money, there were short stories, freelance articles...and two years out of grad school, she'd just published her first book. Though it hadn't been a rampant best seller, it was something of a cult classic, and well received in the literary circles _she_ cared about most. A dark romp, the love child of Vonnegut and Atwood, and a little whimsy reminiscent of Tom Robbins. Things were finally falling into place, the way she'd always hoped.

Perhaps it was Daria's _unapologetic nature _that intrigued Tom, yet at the same time, it still managed to drive him crazy. He realized that if he wanted to rekindle anything with her, he had to be real. And though she paid him the same courtesy, the same act of trust, it was still _so difficult _to get inside that woman's head. It was almost a game in a way, that consumed his thoughts and free time. _What could he learn about Daria today? What was she working on, what was she writing about? What was it that drew out that mournfully beautiful smile? _

Tom flashed a genuine smile, smug, pleased to have attracted her attention away from her packing. He sat straddling a chair, sleeves of his crisp white oxford shirt rolled up to the elbow, tie undone and collar unbuttoned. It amused her, the way he would unwind in these little visits, even if just for an hour lunch break. Perhaps he needed it to stay sane. _Please don't rely on me for peace of mind _Daria found herself thinking. As evidence would have it, it simply wasn't the best route to follow.

"Aren't I always acidic?" Tom asked. "Isn't that why we get along so well?"

Daria sighed, rolling her eyes as well. There were many reasons why she liked Tom, why she was happy to have him back in her life as a friend, or even as more than a friend, when too much wine was involved. It had happened, once or twice, she would admit. Though much to Tom's chagrin, the only lasting effect seemed to be a hangover. He didn't exactly make it a secret that he would like to date her again, though he respectfully kept his distance. For the most part. It was a dynamic Daria found she enjoyed, very much on her own terms.

"There seems to usually be an extra bit of venom reserved, for matters involving Trent."

Tom made a stabbing motion towards his heart, mimicking the twist of an imaginary a dagger. "You can't blame me, Quiet Girl."

Daria went back to her packing, rifling through her drawers for anything else she might need. "I can, and will."

It had been years, since the last time she saw Trent. She and Jane had gone to L.A. over winter break, while still in grad school. It had been quite possibly the merriest Christmas she'd ever passed. Memories of bare skin glowing gold under the atmospheric light of a towering evergreen tree plagued her thoughts, before she pushed them back out of her mind. And why hadn't she seen him since? It would seem that if they could fall into each other's arms so easily upon every meeting, that they would coordinate time to see each other. But living on opposite coasts complicated things, as did graduate school, and then work...that was life.

Though still they persisted in their paper correspondence, Daria had not received any word from her rock star in nearly six months. And from the past year he'd had, Daria couldn't exactly blame him. At first tidbits came from Jane, and then as Trent even pulled away from contact with his sister, only from hearsay published in music gossip columns. Daria felt like an unwelcome voyeur in a way, scavenging bits and pieces like a jackal, hoping for something that may have been a ghost of a truth about Trent.

Shortly after finishing the tour of their third album, Mystik took a plunge for the worst, seemingly spiraling out of control. It began with Nick taking up the new hobby of sky diving. Though there was supposedly no evidence of foul play, one day his chute failed to open, leaving the bassist to freefall hundreds of feet. This freak fatal accident in turn inspired drummer Max Tyler to hand in his resignation, find God, and join a mission somewhere in the heart of Africa. And the coup de grace, Jesse Moreno, high on cocaine and other amphetamines coursing through his veins, lost control of his Porsche and rolled off a cliff, supposedly after an argument with Trent about what direction the band should take in the face of such crippling disaster.

In the course of six months, Trent found himself the only remaining survivor of the once mighty Mystik Spiral. And the lead singer's reaction to such a blow? Total reclusion, it seemed. What was he doing, all alone in that mansion on the hill? Rock zines were dying to find out, but any attempt to visit the house was only thwarted by heightened security, and invasive high powered camera lenses daunted by closed window shades. Only his most trusted assistants were allowed to come and go from the house, bringing groceries and other necessities, sworn to silence in the outside world. No one could reach him, not Jane, not his parents, not even Daria. Needless to say his loved ones worried, but there was nothing to be done.

So it was much to Daria's surprise, when she received a call from a friend from grad school, who worked at Rolling Stone. "I have a free-lance proposition for you," had said Greg. "We're desperate for this story. If Revolver is the first to get a line from Trent Lane, my editor's going to flip shit. Lay an egg. Know what I mean?"

"As painful as that sounds for your editor, I'm not sure how I can help you."

"We want you to try for this story. We'll arrange it. We just need you to go, if he'll have you."

Thinking there wasn't a chance in hell for their success, Daria agreed.

Lo and behold, much to Daria's amazement and bewilderment, it seemed Trent had agreed to the arrangement. She would fly to L.A. that night. But in truth, she half expected to get there and Trent turn her away at the door, having changed his mind. She had to try, though. Six months was a long time to keep yourself locked away...and that was coming from her, the anti-socialite.

"Trent needs _someone_. I don't really even give a damn about the article," she admitted to Tom.

Tom sighed, looking to the carpet. "Daria to the rescue, then?"

"It's a sick sad world, isn't it?"

Curiously, Tom turned his gaze up again, watching her busy herself with final details of filling her suitcase. There were a lot of clothes in there. More than a week's worth, which was her proposed duration of absence. Tom tried to imagine going six months without human contact, without seeing the sun. Maybe Trent did need a hero. And maybe it made him jealous, and maybe it did seem sick and sad to Daria that she could save someone. But in a way, it made perfect sense to him.


	25. One Flew Over the Rockstar's Nest

-1**25. One Flew Over the Rock Star's Nest**

After passing through the rather menacing security guard at the front gate, Daria drove her rental car up the hill, parking before the five car garage. Was she nervous? Jesus Christ yes she was. Daria was no psychologist, no psychotherapist, no nothing that technically qualified her to deal with this kind of seeming psychological condition, except perhaps being a close friend. Maybe, hopefully, that would be enough.

Well, the rock god had spoken, and she, Daria Morgandorffer, was _the one _he wanted to see.

What kid of shape would Trent be in? Locked up in a dark house, voluntarily, for six months...what ever lay behind that door, it couldn't be good, could it?

Standing before the large double front doors, it seemed to Daria that there should be some out of the ordinary protocol to follow. Knocking, or ringing a doorbell, just seemed too mundane. But at a loss for what else to do, she pressed the ornate doorbell, hoping Trent hadn't disconnected it.

Daria found she could tell time by the sound of her heartbeat throbbing in her ears. One, two, three...at least a minute passed. Did he not hear? Did he disconnect the doorbell after all? Did he just decide he didn't want to see her after all? At that moment, all three seemed like feasible explanations. Reluctantly, Daria began to raise her small hand to pound upon the door, when the sound of a deadbolt clicking back nearly caused her to jump off the front stoop.

Almost as though she'd never seen a door work before, she stared in awe as the rest of the locks were pulled back, and the portal cracked open slightly. Daria squinted, peering into the darkness, just as seemingly the face in the shadows warily regarded the blinding sunlight outside.

Adrenaline raced through her veins, making Daria's limbs slightly tremble with a combination of nerves and anticipation. And the moment of truth finally came, Trent's first spoken words to her in more than a year: "Hey, Daria." His voice was croaky, as though he had not spoken in a long while.

"Hey, Trent," Daria replied, relief for some reason washing over her.

"Want to come in?" he asked, holding the door open wider, even as he peered out at the outside world suspiciously.

"Sure."

Daria slipped through the barely large enough crack in the façade of the house, and Trent immediately closed the door behind her, latching the deadbolt with an obviously practiced motion of hand. A quick look around revealed that most of the house was swathed in shadow, excepting a beam of light emitted from somewhere down the hall.

They stood across from each other, sizing each other up in the darkened foyer. There was a wariness to Trent's eyes; even in the diffuse light seeping through the blinds Daria could see the open suspicion. She had come on Rolling Stone's agenda, after all. Was she one of them now? Yet another reporter, hungry for the scoop, hoping to use him and his pain to make their career? If Daria hadn't already tried to make contact, long before, Trent would have never even considered Rolling Stone's offer.

"So, you're here to report, huh?" asked Trent in his most unenthusiastic drone. Daria studied him carefully. He'd gone back to the familiar olive green t-shirt, holey jeans, and bare feet. Though it was hard to tell in the dark, Trent seemed a lot paler than usual. Maybe a little gaunt. But other than that, in one piece. At least on the outside. Appearances can be deceiving.

Daria gave a noncommittal shrug. "We can scrap the article right here if you want," she found herself saying. "It's you I care about."

Trent gave a ghost of his usual smile, covering that cough-laugh with a hand. "Oh. Slipping in under the radar. Like James Bond or something. Cool."

There was a note in Trent's voice, a certain tone of utter fragility Daria had _never _heard from him before. Perhaps hints of it here in there, mostly when he was begging her to move to California on numerous occasions. But this...this was unnerving.

"Oh, Trent..." Articulate as she usually was, especially now that she'd gained some self confidence, finally grown a bit into her skin, Daria had no words. In a gesture of universal language that could be understood the world over, she held out her arms in offering of human contact.

Once upon a time, Trent would have immediately melted into that offered embrace, thrilled to be so graced by her trust. But now, he stood still, warily evaluating her. Daria's heart sank with the suspicion he viewed her with. Had things really come to this?

Just as she was about to lower her arms disappointedly, Trent took a tentative step forward, almost as though he expected to be slapped for moving towards her. She froze, afraid to move, lest she spook him, almost as though he were a wild animal unaccustomed to man. Six months locked away...perhaps the analogy was closer than she knew.

Once convinced the territory was safe, so to speak, Trent took another step, and another, until he filled her arms, long body stooped over her to bury his nose in her hair. She detected a tremor rack his wiry frame as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. With arms around his torso, Daria determined that she could definitely feel ribs through his shirt. _Oh Trent, _she found herself thinking. _What have you done to yourself? What has the world done to you?_

Almost as though he detected her silent mental question, Trent sighed against her skin. "I've had a rough year, Daria," he whispered, voice cracking.

Daria turned to press lips to his neck, at the base of his ear. "I know, babe, I know," she whispered back. "But it's going to be alright."

Trent shuddered, and it took a moment for her to realize he was laughing. It was no sound of joy, but harsh and broken spasms. "You know, if it were coming from anyone else, I would call you a fool and a liar."

Holding back tears of her own at the broken tone of Trent's voice, Daria ran her fingers through his hair. She knew not what to say to that, because she feared she might still be both of those things. _Please don't let me screw this up _she found herself entreating to whatever deity may have been amused enough by the antics of mortals to watch and listen.

Daria stroked Trent's hair quietly, until he straightened up again to look down at her. "I'm glad you're here, Daria," he said, very much in earnest.

Reaching up, he made to stroke a lock of hair away from her face, until Daria gazed in horror at his hand. The fingertips were rough and scabbed, some with the blood seemingly only just dried. "Cleaning out the garbage disposal with bare hands again?" she deadpanned, clasping the abused fingers gingerly in her own, examining them well as she could in the pseudo-twilight.

Trent allowed her to look at his chord hand, and then subsequently the picking hand, which did not look much better than its mate. She recognized the damage. They were guitar blisters from hell. Manic fits of playing, perhaps? "I've been practicing," he simply said, as though that explained everything.

When Daria looked up at him with wide eyes behind square framed glasses, he realized it indeed was not quite enough. "Come into the living room," he invited. "I'll tell you about the past year of my life."

"If you're ready," she said, almost cautiously, not wanting to jump immediately into anything Trent wasn't quite prepared to confront yet.

Slouching in his characteristic way, Trent gazed about the shadowy house around him with accusatory dark eyes. "I think it's time," he said, almost as though speaking to himself. Reaching out a long arm, he flipped a light switch without warning, plunging both of them into blindness for the next few seconds. "It's time," he echoed, this time quietly, turning on his heel. "It's time, it's time, _it's time." _

Somewhat bewildered, Daria watched Trent make his way down the hall with that long-legged gait, flipping all the light switches he could along the way to the living room. Was this a _renaissance _waiting to happen in the Lane household? She found she was hoping so. "And let there be light," she murmured to herself, and followed Trent down the hallway.

Entering the living room, Daria found Trent standing in the middle of the area rug, gazing around the space as though he hadn't seen in in years. And in this light, perhaps he hadn't. A small smile ghosted across his lips, and Daria followed his gaze, finding he was staring at one of Jane's paintings. His pleasure in his kid-sister's work seemed genuine, and Daria couldn't help but think that this was going better than she'd dared hope.

Silently, Daria took a seat upon the black leather sofa. She watched him carefully, curious of what he would do next. He turned his gaze to her next, studying her sitting form. "Will you hold me?" he asked quietly, in a voice that only a total wretch could have denied.

"Come hither, if ye wish."

It took no more encouragement than that, for Daria to suddenly have Trent draped across her lap, head resting against her thigh. And with no more ado, he talked. He talked and talked, as though he had not spoken a word to a single human being in a year, and had bottled up all this _life _within him, just waiting for the opportunity to escape in the form of words passing his lips. He spoke of the loss of his friends, his pain, his fear.

Daria stroked his hair, his neck, his back, as he spilled his soul to her, in a string of words possibly outweighing in volume everything else he'd ever said to her in their entire lives. Where the words seemed to have been stuck in his throat for so long, unable to escape, they now flowed like water bursting forth from a dam, trickling out and filling every available space in their journey _onwards_. For so long, he had not even been able to sing. How was it, that with Daria near, he discovered so many things about himself, things before he did not think he could do?

"So Nick wanted a hobby. And for some reason, he picked sky diving. Had to be sky diving. He was so damned stoked about it. But the rest of us, we all had a bad feeling about it. Like a premonition, you know? We knew something bad was going to happen. And it did. Bam, the chute failed. Nick falls four hundred feet without a parachute. Guess who had to identify the body? It's enough to make a guy never want to fly again, much less _jump out _of a plane.

"Then, Max freaks out. Says it's a sign from God, that he's not doing what he's supposed to be doing. Says he had a dream or some shit, that he needs to go to Africa, to help the babies with AIDS or something, or else he's going to die too. I told him he could probably do more good by playing music, making ungodly amounts of money, and then starting a charity. Send them food and clothes and medicine and shit, you know? But no. He had to go himself. So now he's in Darfur or the Congo or the Kalahari or some shit, I don't even know where. I don't think _he _knows where. If he's even still alive.

"And then, Jesse and I got into it, arguing about where to go next with the band. Do two guitars still constitute a band? Ok, the duo. The pair. Whatever. I said maybe we should wait a month, and hopefully Max would come back. Maybe we would all want to tear into each other sometimes, but we made good music together. Great music. Once we grew into ourselves, we discovered something. A creativity we could all channel together, all at the same time. It's weird, it's hard to explain. But it was there.

"But Jesse didn't want to wait for Max. He said either we hire new people to play with us, or he would go solo. I basically told him, because I was angry, good fucking luck. He stormed out, got drugs from somewhere. Bought them or had a stash, I don't know. It doesn't matter. Vwoom! Off a cliff, in that Porsche that he never had good enough reflexes to drive well. Guitar he could handle, but a manual transmission? Not a good idea. _But chicks like it though._

"So here I am. Bandless. Familyless. I've been playing music with those guys since junior year of high-school, Daria. I saw them more than the total time I've ever spent with _my own parents_, I guarantee.

"Now, I'm cursed. I mocked Jesse's idea to go solo, and now I myself have no where else to go, but that very path. What else can I do? Find another band? Build another band? At this point? Yeah right. I'm terrified, Daria. I've never been so completely alone before, emotionally, and creatively. I've always had someone else to back me up, someone else to give me rhythm, a supporting riff, a lyric that was _just _what the song needed.

"Now, it's _all _on me. Solo artists go one of two ways, breaking away from a successful band. Either they soar through the sky, or sink like a stone. There is no in between. You're either Clapton, or you're...Fergie."

Daria suppressed a laugh at his last observation. "I don't know, Trent," she teased. "_London_ _Bridge_ sold sickeningly well."

"I don't mean sales, Daria. I mean...respect."

_Fair enough._

Trent took a deep breath and released it, finally relaxing against Daria, finally allowing himself to feel the soothing motions of her fingertips over his skin. "So I've been practicing," he explained, gesturing with a scabbed hand absently. "I've been working. Writing. Playing. I have to be able to play by myself well enough, along with vocals, to captivate a crowd...no pressure."

Though the actual sight of his hands made Daria cringe a little inside, she couldn't help but be impressed by this newfound work ethic, OCD as it was. She remembered a time when he was doing well, getting to practice two hours late. Where had he kept this fervor all along? Possibly inside a box labeled _insanity, _deep within his soul. Maybe letting a little bit of both out was what made great artists, she mused. The best of the best never quite walked on the same plane of mere mortals. Most would argue, herself included.

"Trent, when was the last time you went outside?" she asked quietly, stroking his now bony cheek. He was so pale, so very pale, and so very thin. Now that he was pressed against her, she could feel it.

The thought made Trent groan. "I don't want to go outside," he groaned. "_They're_ waiting."

"They who?"

"Reporters from Rolling Stone," he joked, turning on his back to look up at Daria, a ghost of a playful smile curling his lips.

"Sorry to break it to you, but she's already infiltrated," she said, smiling down at him. "She flew in, under the radar."

"Mmm." He reached up to trace the lines of her face. Lines he knew so well, even though he had not seen her in so long. Too long. "I'm glad you're here, Daria."

"Me too."

"Stay for a while?"

"I could be persuaded."

The smile widened, and the sight caused Daria's heart to soar. "Then we both might not see the sun for a while longer," he mused, plans of keeping her all to himself running rampant through his head. In his bedroom, in his studio...maybe they would open some blinds. Let the paparazzi snap photos of them making love on the living room floor. Now _that _would piss off Monique...the thought pleased him greatly. How long had it been, since he felt this way? Since some ray of...hope had shined in on him?

"When was the last time you ate?" Daria asked, brushing fingers over his exposed ribs. One, two, three, four...Jesus.

"I don't know." As of late, Trent was often lucky if he knew what time of day it was, much less when it was time to eat. He would meander to the kitchen when he could no longer ignore the clawing in his stomach, then disappear back into his studio again.

"Well, I'm no culinary genius, but you learn a thing or two when forced to feed yourself. Can I cook something for you?"

"Alright."

Daria smiled, relieved. This was a moment she never anticipated having: being glad to cook a meal for a man. Though she was no Ms. Barch, it was something she'd managed to avoid thus far. It was almost a game with Daria, seeing how many of the commonly accepted gender roles she could reverse on the beaus of her life. Thus far, she'd become a whiz at getting Tom or Graham to cook dinner for her.

Though it seemed the next step would be to stand, Daria found herself unwilling to move. Trent held her small hand against his cheek, eyes closed, as though he meant to memorize the exact feel of her skin against his. Maybe he did. Maybe he already had. "Daria?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hmm?"

"Do you still love me?"

The question echoed in her mind from so long ago, and suddenly she was back in a very posh hotel room in Boston, tangled in naked limbs with Trent, still seemingly a kid on the cusp of maturity, getting ready to slap life in the face and see how far she could run before it caught up with her. One would most likely say it had caught up to Trent now. Her time was coming, as it did for everyone. It had to sometime, and the thought frightened her.

"Yes," she answered, and knew she meant it. She could not imagine ever being asked that question by Trent, and not having the same answer, in some form or another.

"Want to write some songs? Like old times?"

"Alright. But only after you've finished your dinner, young man."

Trent released a long sigh of relief, pressing grateful lips to her wrist lovingly. "If you say so."


	26. The Allegory of Melody Powers

**26. The Allegory of Melody Powers**

Daria looked down at the man she cradled upon her shoulder, who slept sound as a baby, dozing like a sack of sand. She shifted position, ever so slightly, only to have him tighten his grip around her. Even in his sleep, it seemed that he feared she would slip away.

Given her previous history, it wasn't an unfounded fear.

Daria thought back on the huge feast she'd cooked in the kitchen . A layer of dust had settled over parts of the countertops, where food had not been prepared for months. Contrary to the usual Lane tradition of stocking the cupboards, she'd found the kitchen fairly full of food, most likely not the work of Trent himself but the rock star's seemingly invisible assistants.

Trent had picked at the pasta, bread, and vegetables she'd set before him, as though he'd forgotten how exactly to handle a plate full of food. She wondered if he would have reacted differently, had she pulled a pizza pie from the oven. However, as gaunt and even possibly malnourished Trent was, a real meal with true nutrients seemed the best course to follow.

Feeling unpleasantly like an overzealous mother, nagging Trent to eat, Daria had only been able to watch Trent pick like a bird for so long, before she crossed the counter to stand beside him.

"I'll make you a deal," she said, taking his fork from him gently.

Interested, Trent let her have it, watching her with those dark, and now even slightly sunken, eyes. "A deal?"

"Yes," she answered. "For every helping of pasta you finish, I'll give you a kiss. Bonus points for bread and vegetables."

Twirling the fork in the pile of fettuccine, she lifted it in offering, eyebrow raised encouragingly. Trent was the only man in the world she would _ever _do this for, and even then, only because he looked somewhat reminiscent of a malnutrition bulletin in national geographic. With one last considering look, Trent opened his mouth wide. And she couldn't help but think he chewed with something of a smug smile, if that was possible.

Trent had kept up his end of the bargain, finishing that plate and another one besides. "I'm so full!" he'd groaned. Despite his discomfort, Daria was glad, even thankful, that he'd eaten. "Come lay down with me," he urged, tugging her away from the mess in the kitchen, leaving it for later. Some habits never change. He leaned down to steal a kiss as they walked up the stairs, happily murmuring the count of _one._ Technically five more to go, though she would happily give him many more than that, if he wanted.

By the grip the now sleeping Trent held around her torso, it seemed Daria would not be going anywhere anytime soon. And so she gave in to the jet lag, and drifted off to sleep with him.

**OOOOO**

Trent was the first to wake. The sun had set, leaving the room nearly pitch black, but for the slivers of bright moonlight sneaking in through the cracks of the blinds. Maybe it would be nice to open them, he thought. To see Daria in the diffuse blue light of the moon. But opening the blinds so soon, after all this time...no, he wasn't ready, even if it was dark outside.

His head felt foggy, almost as though he'd slept too long. Considering his past, when sleep was one of his favorite activities, it seemed an impossibility, but his body was changing as he aged. And even as he abused it...he had not been good to himself, the past six months. It was foolish, and he knew it...but maybe that time was past now. Maybe he had a reason to get better.

Looking to the woman he lay entangled with, he decided it was a sight he could get used to. It was good to have her with him again. Fantastic, really. A god damn miracle. How long would he have kept up his seclusion, without her? Perhaps Jane would have broken down the door...he liked to think she would have.

Trent had been with other women, in this crowded but lonely town. He'd tried, several times, to move on. Among others, there was Tina, the lead singer of The Foggy Mollies, an Indie band. Cris, the yoga instructor. Even Lydia, his producer's daughter. Maybe not the best move, but nothing nasty had come of it thus far. Every single one had always known he wasn't entirely there. Perhaps they didn't know Daria's name, but they couldn't escape her shadow in Trent's heart.

"Are you awake?" whispered Daria, snuggling in closer to him.

"Yeah. But I don't want to move."

Neither, found Daria, did she. Trent stroked the side of her face, and Daria couldn't help but notice the rough texture of scabs at the tips of his digits. "Your poor fingers," she sighed, kissing them gingerly. "Please, no more guitar, until after you've healed."

"I'll try." It was all he could promise. It had become even more of an addiction for him, to feel the vibration of the strings under his fingers, the rich tones emanating from the instrument, all due to his dexterous manipulation. Now that he was alone, he'd begun to appreciate what the guitar solely unto its own could do, more than ever before. Though of course the guitar was something he had always loved, as a key part of his music, but he found his appreciation for it changing, increasing, deepening. It was a harmony with the instrument he'd only experienced glimpses of before, practicing alone in his room between twelve hour naps.

There was something he'd been meaning to tell her ever since she arrived, but had not yet gotten around to it. "I read your book, you know," he said.

"Oh?" A surge of nervous adrenaline coursed through her veins. True, she'd published the book for anyone to read, but knowing that someone so close to her had read something so intimate still set her on edge. Would they like it? What parts of herself would those who knew her best find between the lines? Something even she didn't know? It was that, that uncertainty, which frightened her most.

Moments of silence passed, whilst Daria waited for Trent's opinion of her first big publication? Was he collecting his thoughts, or did he have nothing else to say?

Finally, he broke the silence. "I liked it. It was...honest about life."

Daria sat up on her elbows, a smile curling the corner of her mouth. "You thought a story about a female spy during the cold war who was framed for treason and is forced to run from both sides for her life was honest?" She laughed inwardly at how much the story had grown, since going a reading at the Lawndale coffee house and inspiring a riot of highschoolers, hitting the streets with the intent to storm the Russian embassy. Melody's early voice echoed in her mind: _When things are no longer black and white, paint the town red._

With a smirk, Trent leaned into her, brushing lips against hers. "Yeah," he defended. A thrill of excitement he'd been too tired before to act upon rushed through his limbs, feeling the weight of her warm skin pressing into him. With an act of agility that surprised even him, he flipped Daria onto her back, settling on top of her body. How was it that their hollows and curves seemed to match so well, as though they were tailor made for each other?

With nimble fingers sliding into his hair, Daria drew Trent down for another kiss. However, he stopped short, whispering above her lips, "Because maybe that was the plot, but that wasn't what the story was _really about,_ was it? It was about life itself. Having no real home but one's own skin, feeling uneasy on both sides, with only a few friends who are trustworthy."

So there it was, thought Daria, sinking back down into the soft mattress. Trent, like Jane and very few others, managed to make the personal connection between Daria and her creation, Melody Powers. Every time, it unnerved her a little bit more, for some reason. "You know me too well," she groaned, turning away from Trent's piercing gaze.

Shaking his head, Trent completely disagreed. "Never enough," he contradicted, pressing an urgent kiss to the hollow of her throat. "_Never _enough."


	27. Colors of Vivacity

27. Colors of Vivacity

Nearly two weeks had passed, since Daria first arrived. The time had flown, with Trent's spirits seeming to lift more and more with every passing day. He showed her his studio, his collection of new guitars purchased since his last visit, and the pile of broken guitar strings off in the dark corner. _Janey wants them_ he'd explained, almost sheepishly.

He'd stayed away from the guitar for at least the time Daria was conscious; by the looks of his fingers on some days, she kind of suspected he would sneak off to court his trusty Alvarez whilst she slept. But she could not truly blame him; it was his love, his art. And slowly, the fingers did heal.

The very day the last scab flaked off, leaving behind a rough round of scar tissue upon his finger, Trent pulled her to his studio to play for her. Daria stood amazed by the vast improvement only six months of concentration had brought forth in him, since last she heard him perform. "Trent, you're going to be fine," she found herself assuring him, quite genuinely. "I think you could easily stand on your own now. Call your manager or whoever and tell them you're ready to make a new album."

Pursing his lips, Trent strummed absently. "I have music," he said. And he did. He'd been working on several new riffs. Brand new material. But it wasn't quite enough. "But I need words." He had ideas, concepts, to fill out. However, with Daria's help, they could truly shine. Things could be just like the first album. Those gloried days of _Quiet Girl_.

Trent inclined his head towards Daria, and without a word she knew what he wanted from her. He'd asked in the very beginning of this small miracle, to write songs together again. She realized it must have been on his mind ever since her arrival, but he bided his time, waiting until he could touch the guitar with mended hands, without her objection.

"Alright," she said, sitting down on the couch next to Trent. "Let's write some songs."

OOOOOO

Far in the distance, through the now open window blinds, Daria could see the faintest hint of light teasing the sky in the East. They'd kept such strange hours, manically but joyfully staying awake, high on their creativity while writing songs, and collapsed when they needed to, whether it be noon or three in the morning. In between writing lyrics they would stop to eat, to watch Sick Sad World, or even to make love. Looking around the room, Daria could pick out several surfaces that had been christened in the living room alone, from one of the oversized armchairs, to the leather couch, to the floor.

It was interesting for Daria, to collaborate with another in a creative act. Writing was usually such a solitary process for her, which was certainly apart of the appeal. But she found, strangely, that she enjoyed sharing that creativity with Trent. Putting two minds together, the musical and the linguistic parts of their brains, to create something beautiful.

"Let's go to bed," said Trent, encircling her in his arms from behind, pressing a tender kiss behind her ear. They'd been awake all night, testing out words, feeling their resonance, adjusting cadence.

Daria could see her lover's reflection in the glass of the window. Trent wore no shirt, only padding around the house on bare feet in his favorite ragged pair of jeans. He seemed to be staring out at the outside world, of which he had not yet ventured back into. The light had come on, the blinds opened...but the doors remained closed, and he remained pale as a ghost. His mouth was pressed into a grim line, a testament to his apprehensive thoughts of outside.

He had yet to face anyone besides Daria, and he found the thought did not excite him in the least. Perhaps he did crave to perform again, to play in front of a sold out stadium and inspire the crowd to go wild. But he suspected it was not the actual people he craved, the demanding individuals craving a piece of him for what ever their reasons, but the charged energy of a crowd. A vindication of his talent, and bringing such intense joy to so many people, all at once. It was the power of music. Once it sank its teeth in, it would never let go.

"Let's go outside first," Daria suggested, testing the waters. She had not pushed the subject at all, letting Trent wake up and bloom on his own accord. And he'd come a long way. Though still rail thin, he was back to his usual body shape, and not the form of an emaciated waif. He smiled often, he laughed...he played like Orpheus and obviously enjoyed it. It seemed her work was nearly done, Trent was nearly able to function again, enjoy life again...terrifying as _that _was.

Trent stayed silent for long enough, that Daria thought he was declining to answer her entirely. "I don't know." 

"It's sunrise. No self-respecting person will be out there stalking with a camera at dawn."

With a cough, Trent answered, "It's not the self-respecting I'm worried about."

Daria certainly couldn't argue with that.

"Come on," she said, taking his hand, drawing him towards the back door. "Step outside for five minutes. You can't melt in just five minutes. Then, we can go to bed."

Though Trent still didn't seem wild about the idea, he also didn't fight against the hand that pulled him towards the so-feared outside. They stood before the back entrance, a tall glass portal that led out to a patio. Taking a deep breath, Trent's nostril's flared, as he peered suspiciously out through the glass. _This isn't going well, _she thought to herself. _Maybe we should just forget about it, save it for another time. _

"Five minutes," said Trent, taking her totally by surprise.

"Alright."

Unlocking the deadbolts, they slipped out the door into the softening morning light. Trent gripped Daria's hand tight as they slowly made their way down the few steps to the patio. The cobblestones were cold under their bare feet, and dew glistened on the lawn. The reclusive rock star gazed around, hunched in on himself, as though he expected to be attacked at any minute. His muscles thrummed with the urge to dart back inside.

Yet he stayed. Took a step forward. And another. The light grew more and more bright in the East, stained with breathtaking pinks and oranges. The sun would burst over the horizon soon, and rise along her path through the sky.

Unexpectedly, Trent kept moving forward, quickly abandoning the stones of the patio for the feeling of soft moist grass beneath his feet. Trembling, he inhaled deeply, straightening his spine, closing his eyes as he let the outside air permeate his skin. "I almost forgot what this is like," he said quietly, opening his eyes to witness the sun just peeking over the horizon.

Daria squeezed Trent's hand encouragingly, moved by his triumph. More than six months without setting a foot outside...ye gods.

It was Trent's turn to tug Daria, pulling her towards a short retaining wall not far away. Plopping down on the cool damp stone, Trent pulled Daria into his lap, encircling her in his arms almost possessively. Chilled by the early morning air, the couple sat huddled together, watching the sun rise. Trent found himself whispering into Daria's ear, "_Rescue me when I need a hand, Quiet girl you understand, Pry blind eyes and show me, resplendent colors of vivacity_."

Sighing, Daria rocked her head back against his shoulder. Vivacity? Her? Compared to his earlier state, however, she supposed this _could _be considered as such. Though she'd never known Trent to be a reader, his vocabulary seemed to have improved since reading her book. "I think my work here is done."

Trent laughed quietly, and the sound was nearly bitter. He thought of how much she inspired him, even when she wasn't directly involved in the wording of lyrics. "One way or another, Daria, I do need you. Some day, you're going to understand."

But in a way, she did understand, perhaps all too well. Trent may have needed her, but she feared should she stay much longer he would become _needy. _As much as she loved him, that was a responsibility she did not want, could not handle. Jane had once made the joke that having a boyfriend and having a child are practically the same thing...in a way it was true.

Daria thought back to her days of high school, the state of extreme anti-socialite she'd achieved. She would look at her parents, dysfunctional, never together, always fighting, and think to herself _why did you do this to yourselves?_ It wasn't until that very moment, sitting there with Trent on the cold retaining wall, after having taken care of him for nearly a month, that she began to really understand how people become so entangled in each other. No matter how infuriating a chosen partner can be, most people can't bear facing life alone. Was she turning into one of them, or deep down underneath, had she been one all along?

Mrrr.

Daria knew she would have to leave soon. Leave the peace and solitude of sharing that huge house with Trent, for the intense bustle of the big apple. Leave waking up to sweet kisses and going to sleep in loving arms. Leave making him food and reminding him to put down the guitar, when it seemed his fingers might break open again...

"You're thinking about leaving, aren't you?"

Daria paused, thinking she didn't want to ruin this perfect stillness of morning with the sorrow of an impending goodbye. Still, he asked, so she answered, "I've been here nearly a month."

"But don't you like being here? With me?"

"Yes."

"Then why go? Come live with me. Bring all your stuff. You can have your own room, your own office, your own level of the house..."

_Don't give me this power _thought Daria, mournfully. _I never asked for it. _"I do like it here," she explained. "But I like New York too." She had a home there. She was successful there. She would be a liar if she said she didn't enjoy the sense of accomplishment, living in one of the largest Metropolises in the world, and living well. She worked there, she knew people there, Jane was there...

"Right," sighed Trent dejectedly. "Everything you've built. You're like air, Daria, I can never quite get a hold on you." Here we go again, thought Trent. This flighty romance seemed to work great for Daria. At least, as far as she let show. But it cut him, deep inside, to watch her slip away again and again...he wanted her _there_. How many years would it be, until he saw her again this time? The thought was utterly depressing...it almost made him want to march right back inside, and not come out again. _No, don't think like that,_ he scolded himself. _You've wasted enough time already._

A ripple of indignance ran through Daria, until he said, "I wouldn't take that from you. Have you give that up for me. I wish we could find a way to have it all."

With a small smile, she snuggled into the bend of his neck. Was that the rock star in him? Wanting to have it all, and why not? "You're going to be so busy with recording soon, and releasing an album, and then touring...you won't even have time to _think _about me, Trent."

"None of that means I won't think of you. Half my songs are _about _you."

Daria gave an exasperated sigh. "Then let's visit each other," she said.

That could work. Still, Trent couldn't help but think, would they really do it? They had more control over their lives now, than when they were younger. Daria was gaining more and more independence with her writing career, (As stealing away for nearly a whole month for him demonstrated), he certainly had earned clout with his label long ago.

"Promise?" he asked, daring to get his hopes up, even with the odds against them.

"Promise."

The sun had completely cleared the horizon, bathing the surrounding hills and houses and swimming pools in that soft horizontal light of the early day. "Then you can't go back empty handed. Feel like writing an article?"

Surprised that he would mention it, Daria shrugged. "Only if you want to."

"I want to," he assured her. "We have to let them know we're coming."

"We?"

Daria felt his body shudder with a laugh and cough behind her. "You're not getting out of the credit for this one, Daria. Whatever's about to happen, it couldn't have without you."

"Now now, let's not get too credit happy. My anonymity, and all."

Maybe they could give a warning shot, but Daria had a feeling that no one would be expecting the raw emotional power of the project Trent was about to embark on.


	28. For The Sake of Art

**28. For the Sake of Art**

"If I like, ever met this Quiet Girl, I would sooo like totally slap the stupid out of her..."

Daria listened to the bathroom banter through the stall doors as she washed her hands. Obviously two teenagers who had it _bad _for Trent, she determined.

"Yah, like, if Trent Lane was like writing songs for me, I would so move straight to California, like pronto."

Daria cringed at the high pitched peals of laughter that erupted from behind the doors, and quickly made to dry her hands. "If you ever get the feeling more than just your eye shadow is glittering, it's because you've turned into a trophy wife after all," she said loudly, before escaping out the door.

The faint proclamations of "What a betch!" floated through the closing bathroom door, as Daria walked away. And what would have happened, should they have recognized her, she wondered? After Rolling Stone's cover as of a few months ago, the mystery identity of the quiet girl was wearing thin.

Weaving her way through the crowd, she thought back on that strange day. Trent had gone the distance. Recorded his album. Critics acclaimed it as beautiful, soulful, raw...how better to commemorate Trent's return to the music world from the demise of his band and personal isolation , than putting him on the cover of Rolling Stone?

Someone seemed to have thought a shot of Trent Lane _and _his muse would be better. Though he did not admit to it, Daria suspected it may have been Trent himself who masterminded the shoot. However, the original concept was decidedly _not_ his. When the photographer instructed, as Trent stripped off his shirt, for Daria to do the same, it was a miracle the man did not bleed to death for the daggers Daria glared at him.

"What?" she'd exclaimed. "No one wants to see me shirtless on the cover of Rolling Stone."

Seemingly not intimidated, the photographer looked at Daria as though she were a creature from Mars. "Is she serious, man?" he directed at Trent.

Eyebrows raised high, fighting not to smile for the look Daria next directed at _him, _Trent coughed. "Uh...yeah. She basically has no idea how hot she is," he said, hiding a curl of lips behind his hand.

"Could you at least do your bra?" pleaded the photographer, with a excited wave of hand. "Come on. This isn't a pin up cover. This is art. This is going to be one of the posters, know what I mean? The cover of a book. Think of the John and Yoko shot. This is supposed to be raw...and your tank top will just _ruin _it. It's Trent _Lane_, back from his six month...sabbatical, and his..."

The magnification of Daria's glare only increased, and Trent winced, waiting for the fool to say _his chic. His girl. His lady. _Any of those possessives that Trent would have liked to be true, not for possession's sake, but simply because he loved her. Any of those adjectives that Daria would resent purely for the implication of the label. _Belonging_ to someone other than herself, her identity being determined not by her own merit but her connection to a man.

The photographer seemed to not notice Daria's ire at all, looking up in the air and mouthing silently, searching for the phrase he could not quite place a finger on. "His co-thought collaborator!" he finally exclaimed, whisking a finger through the air like a rapier. "The mysterious Daria Morgandorffer! The _fucking _quiet girl, for god's sake!"

He looked to Trent for support, but only received a hands up gesture of _leave me out of this. _

"What are you wearing under that?" sighed the photographer, exasperated.

Reluctantly, Daria peeked, unable to remember what she'd pulled out of her drawer at 5:00 AM. "Black bra," she grumbled in response.

"Can we do that then? It'll be _perfect. _Stripped down. Nothing left to hide..." He rattled on and on, and Daria looked back to Trent. Would it be liberating, as so many men claim, for women to be photographed with their clothes off? Shedding the constraints of proper society? Breaking rules? Or was it just a big fat joke on women, yet another way to get under their shirts, and convince them it's art while they're at it? What _was _the difference between the pin up and the artful nude? A lot, in truth. Quite a lot.

For some women, it's an act of taunting. Of power. You can look but never touch. She would be on the cover with Trent, so it didn't signify her as a promiscuous and available woman, free for men's pleasure, did it? But then again, did being with Trent undermine her own individuality? Would she just be seen as Trent's girl? Or his co-thought collaborator...she liked that.

This was his article, after all. His comeback. And as was the case with all art, there would always be some fucking idiot who just didn't get it...

"I can't believe I'm going along with this," she grumbled, reaching for the first button of her shirt. And by the look of amazement upon Trent's face, neither could he.

Noticing Daria unbuttoning her shirt, the photographer leapt out of his monologue. "You're really going to do it?"

"Only for the sake of art." Trent found himself watching her bared skin inch by inch hungrily, and had to remind himself they were not in the privacy of one of their bedrooms.

And so history was made. Trent and Daria appeared on the cover of a June issue of Rolling Stone. Shirtless and back to back, they stood with limbs entangled, staring out stoically, Daria's head craned to rest on Trent's shoulder, and his own craned back to rest on her's. They were tied up in each other, completely inseparable...like all great photographs, there was a little bit of a lie between the lines.

Even so, it was a memory both Trent and Daria cherished, a keepsake of a moment few other lovers could claim. Smiling at the memory, Daria slipped into Trent's dressing room to wait for his return from stage. Things had gone well, as of the past year. They'd managed to keep their promise to each other, visiting frequently. And tonight was a special surprise for Trent, as she happened to find herself in Seattle on assignment on the same night he had a gig. Things had gone _extremely _well...she intended to enjoy it for as long as it could last.

**a/n: because I couldn't resist, I made a fanart for this. the link is on my profile page. **


	29. Pandora's Gift

**29. Pandora's Gift**

Daria looked out at the snow falling upon New York from fifteen floors up. It was a surreal place to be that night, so high that the ground didn't quite seem real, but neither did the lights of the city or the dark sky spewing fluffy white flakes. There was nothing like Christmas to make someone feel truly alone.

_Ah, yes_, she thought, staring down at the storefronts, that seemed merely the size of train village toys. _Tell me how I can buy _**everything** _my life is missing. _Were media to be believed, she could fill herself to the brim with all kinds of useless things. She could complete herself entirely, with a single whirl through the mall. Clothes to get friends, diamonds to buy love...this was a holiday she'd _always_ hated.

But this year seemed particularly dismal, even for the misery chic. She didn't have to buy love...she threw it away with great flippancy, _and still _got her diamond...

In truth, Daria shouldn't have been standing by the window. She should have been more focused on the excitement on the inside of the building, the huge canvases hung on the wall, filled with skewed but beautifully painted figures and faces, in the throes of twisted and painful real life. Jane showed in New York before, but never on this scale. This was a huge moment for her best friend. A monumental breakthrough. She would have an article in _Art in America _next month.

In fact, it was _so _big, that Trent had even flown in from the other side of the country for his kid sister's show. Funny, how he didn't seem to be enjoying it as much as he should have been either.

What was the source of the once lovers' perceived misery? Thing had been going _so _well, until an abrupt turn for the worst. Had it really been nearly two years ago, when the floor fell out from beneath them? Though Daria tried to stop herself, knowing it would only bring her unnecessary pain, she still could not help but think back on that November morning.

She and Trent had continued their visiting, for quite some time. It became even easier after he'd finished his last tour, and finally had some down time to himself. Life on the road was a curse and a blessing, a part of his art he lived for yet resented. Nothing made him happier than camping out in Daria's loft, playing his guitar just for them, no longer confronted nightly by a throng of lustful fans.

And Daria too had enjoyed her breaks. Getting away from the bustle and hostility of New York for the solace of Trent's home on the hill. The past few years had been kind to her writing career; she could work from anywhere in the world, so long as she kept writing. Two more books had cemented that success: the allegorical adventures of Melody Powers lived on, gaining momentum and fan base.

With life so sweet, Trent never could have imagined the fiasco to come. That he could have possibly overstepped his bounds, asking what Daria would say to the idea of him moving to New York. After all, it was the city where the two people he loved most lived: his sister, his Daria. He'd popped said inquiry on a lethargic morning, lounging in bed with Daria, bright sunlight streaming in through the window. How could anything go wrong, on a morning so beautiful?

Daria had blanched at the question, drawing away from him physically and mentally, receding into her shell. "Um...you're free to do what you want, I suppose."

Trent's mood immediately plummeted to blackness. What had he done now? "That's not much of an answer," he said, glancing over at Daria. Well what had he expected? Enthusiasm? From Daria? That was just setting himself up for letdown...but he'd hoped. Foolishly perhaps, but he'd hoped.

"Well, what's wrong with the way things are now?" asked Daria.

It was at that moment Trent realized he'd moved too soon. It had been years since his descent into solitude after the splitting up of Mystik Spiral. Years, of going back and forth, floating on such a cloud of such perfect happiness...how would having him near _all_ the time ruin that?

Trent had stared at the ceiling glumly, these thoughts and much more running through his head. Daria too had lain quiet, afraid in a way that if she moved at all, said anything, their entire world as they knew it would shatter into a thousand pieces. "You're never going to let me in, are you?" he asked quietly, sadly. "No matter what I do."

Daria's brow furrowed. Hadn't she done just that? Didn't she trust him, love him, let him inside as much as she was capable? Perhaps that was the key phrase. _As much as she was capable. _Just because someone doesn't love you just the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," said Daria, voice barely above a whisper, fighting the urge to roll on her side and curl into a fetal position. Things were so good. _So good. _Why must time go on, march on, change everything? "But I _do_ let you in."

Trent scoffed, and it was a sound Daria found to be alien, coming from her lover of so many years. It unnerved her. Ever since his solo come back, he'd been more sure of himself, and even if slightly, more demanding. But it had never really bothered her before, until that moment. "Liar. "

A simmering warmth curled in her chest, causing Daria to furrow her brow. "Excuse me?"

Trent rolled over, one arm leaning over Daria. Though he offered her no violence, Daria still couldn't help but feel trapped. Totally engulfed by him, in a time when she felt she wanted her space. "_Liar," _he repeated quietly. "All these years, Daria, and I still feel as though you're holding me at arms length."

He stared down at her mournfully. Just once, _once_, he would like to completely unravel this woman. Make her feel what it's like to be undone, the way she did to him. He spilled his heart to her, his soul. He loved her, waited for her, wanted her and only her. It hurt, to feel that she didn't want him in the same way.

Yet Daria too felt hurt. Bewildered. Why did he expect something from her she couldn't give? Never offered? Narrowing her eyes, she said, "I need my space, Trent. That's the way I am, the way I will always be, the way you've always known me. What do you want?"

"I want...I want you."

"Since when don't you have me?" she exclaimed. "I don't know what else to offer you!"

Trent's brow furrowed, something hard glinting in those obsidian eyes. "I thought that maybe, just maybe, that by now you might _really _want to be with me. As in, living in the same city. Hell, the same house, but far be it from me to think..." he trailed off in his sentence, rolling off of her, unable to take the pained but stubborn look in her eyes.

"Trent..." Daria reached out to touch his shoulder, but he shrugged her off, pouting like a child. It took a lot for her to reach out, especially when she felt as though _she_ were the one who was attacked in the first place. The rejection stung like a snake bite, and just maybe broke something not easily repaired. "It's not my fault, if you're expecting me to become something new," she grumbled, getting out of the bed. "Something I'm not. Something we never bargained for. That's your issue, I'm afraid."

Trent looked over his shoulder sadly to see her lithe form retreat out the door, and had wondered, _since when do we have to bargain?_

Not long after, they'd sat staring at their phones, hoping for a call from the other side of the country, feeling as though much more than a continent lay between them. Pride, that ugly beast, reared its head, and no phone on either side rang. Not for days. Then not for months. Something beautiful had slipped through their grasp, and both sat bewildered, neither exactly sure of what had happened that November morning.

And then life, as it does, kept plowing forward. It seemed as though an age had passed since it happened. So much had filled the space in between, taken Daria to a different place entirely, one that she would not have expected of herself even but a year ago. She'd done well, forcing herself not to think about Trent, moving onward, keeping herself busy. She did well at forgetting, that is, until he stood in the very same room as she.

_It's just the dimmed lights that make him look that good_ she thought to herself, feeling like a spider watching from the deserted corner, the large windows at her back and a painting more than twice her height to her side. _He's hasn't even looked at me. Maybe he doesn't know I'm here. _Daria decided she would like that. She would like to slip into old habits, go unnoticed, pull a shroud around herself, keep the world at bay with a prickly outer shell.

It all seemed to be going so well, until Trent looked up from the slender blonde who engaged him in conversation, and dark eyes turned right to her. Daria's heart dropped to her feet, as did nearly her drink. But she tightened her grip upon her glass of wine, looking around the room for anything but his eyes. Even after all this time, they drew her like magnets, like a moth to the flame.

The drink nearly dropped again, as she watched him make an excuse to the blonde, and begin to make his way towards her on long legs. _Oh God _she thought. What would she say when he got there? What would she do? How could he walk over here, after what had happened. Well, he'd always been braver than her... She found she had the urge to turn the rather large diamond upon her finger towards the inside of her hand, pretend it did not exist when her rock star arrived at her side. But he wasn't _hers _anymore, and so it remained.

Stopping before Daria, Trent looked down at her, a small sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Hey," he said. Perhaps he could have thought of something wittier. Something funny, or even something bitter. But he hadn't the energy for the pretense required for most social situations, faced with _her_.

"Hey," she found herself saying back. They stood and stared at each other, either unsure of what to say, or even what _could _be said.

"How have you been?" Trent finally asked, deciding to stick with the mundane for starters.

"Not bad. And you?"

"You know. Keeping myself busy." He laughed a little, covering his cough with a hand. Daria too smiled. Were they sharing the same thought? If the Trent of ten years ago could have heard himself, could have known what _busy _would entail...life never turns out quite the way one expects it to.

"I...liked your last album," said Daria, looking down at her drink. _At least look him in the eye_. She did, and found it felt just a little like getting shot in the chest.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah...even though you called me a coward in the fifth track."

Trent coughed in his hand again, this time to hide a smile. "Uh...but I apologized in the last song."

True, he did, in one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful ballads he'd ever written. Looking down sheepishly, he found his vision drawn to that glittering rock upon her finger, unable to look away. Was that what he'd done wrong? Had she really wanted one of those? Something told him that maybe, just maybe, that diamond glittered prettily, in the way attractive lies do.

"Nice ring," he said, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip from his glass.

Daria visibly paled two shades. Yes, she had this coming, didn't she? She noticed he did not exactly offer congratulations.

"Thanks." It wasn't enthusiastic. How could it be?

Trent found himself drawn to the nearby window, and couldn't help but peer down at all the little people, and all the little cars, constantly in motion. "So where is the lucky guy?" he asked. "I haven't seen him here."

Daria joined him at the window, drawn to watch the life down below in a similar way, as she had earlier. She could feel the cool of the glass against her skin, contrasted with the warmth of Trent at her shoulder..._don't think about that, she scolded herself. "_He's away at a conference, in London," she disclosed.

Instantly she wondered, why did she tell him that? Why not just say he's on a business trip? Her fiancé spent a lot of time away, further and further consolidating the family empire abroad.

Eyes once again drawn to her diamond, comparing it with the cold snow that fluttered down from the sky, Trent found himself taking her hand in his. "Is this what you really wanted?" he asked sadly, unable to stop himself. "Is this what I _should _have given you?"

Daria stood open mouthed. She wouldn't have been more shocked if Trent had slapped her across the face. "I _am_ a material girl," Daria said, rolling her eyes. Her shield was up, the sarcasm ready to fend off any attacker.

"I'm serious, Daria," said Trent, releasing her hand. His long fingers trailed across her palm as he drew away, lingering like a promise.

"You know it's not," she answered, looking back out to the city and snow. She clenched the ringed hand open and closed, as though his touch had burned her.

"I've been waiting for the indifference, but I don't think it's ever going to come," he said quietly.

"I think we would need closure for that." Daria leaned her head against the glass, knowing it would leave a spot, but not caring for the crisp relief it brought her suddenly aching brain.

"So I'm not the only one." Trent paid her a sliding glance. Still, after all this time, the sight of her still hit him like a punch in the gut. It didn't seem fair, but he felt slightly vindicated, knowing it at least affected her too.

"No."

"Hmm. Closure... And how do we get that?" he mused to himself. This was a song in the making, but he found at the moment, he was tired of songs. He wanted something real, something he could hold. Something to relieve this ache in his chest, even if for only a night.

Daria raised an eyebrow, wondering where exactly this was going. "Walmart has it on sale, I hear, for $10.99."

"Daria..."

"What? You can buy everything else this time of year."

Exhaling a deep sigh, Daria turned mournful cocoa eyes up to Trent. _What do you want from me? _were the words that stuck in her mouth, turned to ash on her tongue. She resisted the urge to squirm, under that dark piercing gaze. "Come to my hotel room," he finally said.

Eyes widening slightly, Daria quickly answered, "You know I can't do that."

"Just to talk," Trent insisted. "Away from all these _eyes_." He gestured towards the room, and Daria couldn't be sure if he meant the watching crowd, or the paintings...both could be equally unnerving, in the right circumstance. "For closure's sake."

Daria swallowed, hard. This was ridiculous. She was engaged now. She shouldn't go to Trent's hotel room...was she worried about it for propriety's sake, or because she was afraid of what might happen? What it might be like to be so near him again, with no one's eyes to watch but their own? Maybe a little bit of both.

What would she say, if her betrothed found out? A city of millions suddenly became so small, when you were marrying a Sloane...she could fend him off with excuses. _She only went to talk..._because, that was exactly why she would go. Right?

Enough adrenaline released into her system to cause her hands to quaver. Utterly to her own surprise, her lips seemed move on their own accord, answering, "Alright."

**OOOOOOO**

Trent's large hotel suite spanned more space than four average sized apartments, filled with expensive furniture, a mini kitchen, a bar...but mostly, it was filled with emptiness. He would have liked to have someone to share it with. He would have liked to share it with the woman who walked past him, as he held the door for her. However, he doubted he could be so lucky, as to convince her to stay. She looked upon him now with a certain sense of wariness...that look she'd reserved for _everyone else _before...that he was now simply another one of _them _nearly broke his heart all over again.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked as she shed her snowflake speckled coat. They melted and glittered as drops of water, leaving her covered in a shining coat of tears of the sky.

"Trying to ply me with alcohol so early in the evening?" she asked with a wry smile, unwinding her scarf from her slender neck. He recognized it, a forest green length of fine Italian silk he'd bought for her on a European tour...how could she wear that, feel the fine fabric slide against her skin, and not think of him? Or maybe she _wanted_ to think of him. _Don't make this harder than it already is, Lane. _

Daria selected her seat, choosing one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace. She purposely chose not to sit on the couch...chose not to give him a chance to sit too near. Who was it she didn't trust? Him, or herself?

Trent took the chair across from her, slouching down to lean an elbow on one of the arms, cupping his chin in his hand. Even as Daria felt he could see right through her with that dark gaze, he wished he could guess just a little of what she was thinking. They sat in silence, sizing each other up, at a loss for where to begin after so long.

Finally, Daria broke the silence. "Well, if it's closure we're after...I guess we should start where we left off two years ago."

Trent nodded slightly, gaze unwavering. "Alright. We start with you, not letting me in."

"I was thinking more along the lines of _you_ expecting me to be someone I'm not."

The corner of Daria's mouth curled at the seeming ridiculousness of the situation. Here they sat at an impasse, not even able to agree upon the problem, and probably unwilling to compromise. It had been two years since...what did they really think they were going to accomplish anyway? It wasn't as though anything would be changed, except maybe opening up some wounds that had only freshly begun to heal.

"I never expected you to...change, Daria. I love you for exactly the person you are."

Daria couldn't help but notice the tense of the verb _to_ _love_. It struck her like a arrow, notched and released from across the room to bury in her chest.

"You must have," she argued. "Why else would you expect me to give you something I couldn't? I did open up to you, as much as I was able...did you feel like I was hiding something from you? Why the sudden dissatisfaction? It felt so...out of the blue."

Trent sat quietly, gathering his thoughts. Daria found that even now she enjoyed watching him, enjoyed having him near again, even if it was painful at the same time. Twisted? Perhaps. Perhaps masochistic, in a way...

"You just...have a way of sitting quietly, thinking. I can see all these thoughts zooming through that amazing mind, but I have no way to know what they are, unless you tell me. I guess I was hoping that eventually, you might."

"Obviously you weren't just hoping, but you were expecting. But I have thoughts, many thoughts, that are _mine_. Absolutely mine, and I owe them to no one else. Not you, not Jane, not Tom...no one but Daria Morgandorffer. It's just the way I am, and it never meant I loved you any less..." Any less than with all her heart. All she could. Why had full disclosure suddenly mattered so damn much?

Daria shifted in her chair while Trent chewed upon her words, smoothing down her black skirt. She'd gone back to something reminiscent of her high school costume as of late, wearing a black skirt, knee height boots, and a soft green sweater over orange. "But what about your books?" he finally said.

"My books?"

"Yeah. Your books. Every one I read, I feel like I learn a little bit more about you. You can put those thoughts into beautiful words for millions of strangers to read, but you can't share them with those closest to you. You write these mind blowing novels, Daria...but they're safe. You have complete control over the characters, their reactions, life or death at your fingertips on the keyboard...but strangers will never judge _you _for what you've written, for what your characters have done. They don't know what's apart of you, and what's just imagination."

"Yes, it's true I enjoy the control an author exercises over her characters. Call it a God complex," she joked. By the way she adjusted her glasses, Trent could tell it was a nervous jest.

Trent only gave the barest of smiles. It wasn't as much of a joke as she thought.

In truth, Trent's observation unnerved her. Why did he insist she share more of her thoughts with him, when he could already hit her nail on the head so god-damned perfectly?

"And maybe that's why you're going to marry Tom..." Trent continued, almost as though he were musing to an empty room. "He knows better now than to try to get too deep in your head, or else you'll push him away. Tom is safe, for you, now."

Daria covered her eyes with a tired hand. Were they going to analyze her relationship with Tom now too? It was something she would rather not get into...but why? She wasn't ashamed of Tom. Everything was perfectly fine...yeah, perfectly fine.

When Daria opened her eyes again she nearly jumped with surprise, finding Trent had moved silently from his chair to kneel before hers. _Please don't come so close_ she thought. _You weren't supposed to be able to come this close. _

"Am I right?" he asked gently, placing a hand on either arm of the chair.

Daria narrowed her eyes. "I'm going to marry Tom because I love Tom," she said, mustering all the conviction she could. With Trent's familiar warmth so near her bare legs, it wasn't as easy as it sounded.

Raising an eyebrow, Trent reached for her left hand. With an audacity only a rock star could wield, he slid her engagement ring from her finger, setting it down gently on the chair-side table. Daria watched with her mouth agape, utterly taken aback by his boldness, and too surprised to stop him. "Now you're not the future Mrs. Tom Sloane. You're just Daria Morgandorffer. So, am I right?"

"Taking off my ring doesn't change anything, Trent."

"Mmm. It makes me feel better though... Or maybe Tom's safe for a different reason," he mused. "Maybe Tom's safe because he's already disappointed you, and you _know_ he will again. At least you'll be ready for it. Expecting it."

Daria found herself squeezing her hands together with a grip of death, trying to ignore the adrenaline that caused them to shake. Who gave Trent the right to dig so deep in her head? Who gave him the right to be so near, to taunt her with this closeness? Two could play the game, but she feared in the end they both would lose.

Daria leaned forward, eyes narrowed, and her nearness set Trent's senses on edge. He suspected she toyed with him, just as much as she seemed truly annoyed. "What makes you so sure _you _didn't disappoint me," she asked, going for the jugular, but instead winning a sly smile.

"I didn't disappoint you, Daria," he said. Unable to resist, he reached up to slide fingers against her jaw line, stroking the long line of her neck. "I think I scared you. It's different."

She released a shuddering sigh at the feel of his cool fingers against her skin, and the truth of his words shoved home, through her heart and straight to her soul. In an attempt to hide her pain, she squeezed her eyes shut, but it was too late. At that moment Trent _knew. _And so he felt it was with perfect justification, that with merely the magnetism of two fingers lightly resting behind her ear, that he drew her into a tantalizing brush of lips that shook them both to the core. "What are you doing?" she whispered, on the verge of panic, but unable to move.

"Closure," he answered, quite matter-of-fact.

"This isn't closure...this is opening Pandora's box." She forced her words past the lump in her throat, so they came as barely above the volume of a whisper.

"I'll risk it," answered Trent, achieving the same volume. "Because after all the pain and suffering, you know, Pandora also released hope."

Trent kissed her again, lips sliding against hers slow and moist, in the way she remembered and so sorely missed. Tom never kissed her like that. Like she was an exotic dessert, meant to be tasted, and savored. As his fingers caressed the sides of her face, holding her as though she were an object of precious value, a tear slipped out the corner of her eye. What exactly for, she couldn't be sure. Love rediscovered, love renewed, love to only be lost again in the morning. Perhaps for once, Trent felt he'd finally achieved his goal. Finally unraveled her, finally made her come undone, finally unlaced the careful lashings that tied together her self control: even if it was too late. As she allowed him to push her green sweater from her shoulders, allowed his long fingers to slide beneath the orange tank top, against the bare skin of her belly and back, he decided he did not care about the consequences morning light would bring. He knew he would ask her to come to Europe with him in a few days, to a festival he was playing, and he knew she would tell him she's still going to marry Tom. For being such a genius, sometimes she could really be _such_ a fool. But at least for now, the both of them were exactly where they belonged.


	30. Welcome To Wedding Hell

**30. Welcome to Wedding Hell**

As far as Daria could tell, all was going well. One could say she was something of a beginner, having never gotten married before, but she seemingly took the preparations in stride. Of course, there was the fact that her mother-in-law to be practically took over the project... But this was a _Sloane _wedding. There were standards to be met.

Daria had been deftly informed of this, after expressing interest in something small, private, with only closest family present. "Oh, we can't do _that_, dear," Tom's mother Katherine had said sweetly, with only the slightest touch of venom, daring Daria to challenge her. With a sigh and something like indifference, Daria handed over the project.

The event was to take place at the cove. There would be over a hundred guests. An orchestra to play the march. Truck loads of flowers. And by god, Daria's dress would have a _train_, no matter what she thought on the matter. Daria sat quietly, replaying the nightmare in her head. _It's almost over_ she assured herself. Tomorrow, she and Tom would get this hell in white taffeta over with, and flee for a two month tour of Europe.

She fondled the canister in her pocket, considering taking another pill. She'd been popping the drugs for weeks now, a prescription to keep her nervous rashes at bay. She could just hear Katherine in her head. _Now isn't __**that**__ unsightly... _

It certainly didn't help matters, that as of that very night, she _kind of _wanted to kill her maid of honor. "Yeah, I'm bringing a guest..." had said Jane when asked, in their attempt to coordinate a rough headcount to be expected for the festivities. However, Jane happily left out one important detail.

That _guest_ turned out to be the last person Daria wanted at her wedding, for obvious reasons.

None other than Trent Lane himself.

In his defense, he seemed to be a reluctant victim. Daria could only imagine what she'd told him, what acts of treachery she'd used to get him here. Jane was downright evil, when it suited her. Usually, Daria took joy in joining in...but this was absolutely _nefarious_. The painter was unable to suppress her inner matchmaker, right up to Daria's own wedding. What did she hope for, mused Daria? That she and Trent would see each other, suddenly come to their senses, and run away? Jane would have just loved that...

But it was not to be. Daria was already up to her eyes and drowning in this fiasco...might as well sink the whole way.

Instead of bachelor and bachelorette parties, Katherine had suggested, "Why don't we just have a big party for you young ones? Invite all your friends, have some fun..." The would obviously be _no _scandal at _this _wedding. Who was she worried would embarrass the Sloanes, Daria wondered? Her, or Tom? Daria imagined what a bachelorette party would be like for her...she and Jane, sitting with a pepperoni pizza and watching Sick Sad World. Probably the only male nudity to be seen would be shots of trench coated midgets out for a night on the town..._what's small, round, and flashes thrice every five minutes? Miniature Exhibitionists, next, on Sick Sad World..._

Compared to the inferno Daria now found herself in, she _really _would have liked to be watching Sick Sad World right then. The thought of passing Jane a note to get the hell out there crossed her mind, more than once. She felt lost in a sea of people she did not know, did not invite, listening to a band that was passable but not original, pecking at food she really had no appetite for. Tom had abandoned her, off carousing with some old friends from Bromwell. At least one of them was enjoying this...

Stealing a glance across the table, she saw Jane engaged in conversation with someone who was apparently an admirer of her work. She wondered if he truly cared about the paintings, or if it was the prestige of meeting the famous artist the man truly wanted to claim. _You'll never guess who I met at this wedding! Do you know the size of the price tag on her work these days? _Daria felt here that the smell of mold on old money overpowered even the most expensive of French colognes.

And sitting quietly beside Janey, Trent rested his chin on his hand, pretending to listen to Jane's conversation, ignoring the etiquette taboo of not placing elbows on the table...she felt ashamed and tainted from Katherine's lectures still ringing in her ears. _Now you wouldn't want to _embarrass _us, would you dear? _Well thank God _someone _was breaking the rules. Being a rock star gained him little notice here among the Sloanes and their circle...he was only _nouveau riche, _after all. He'd behaved himself rather well, as far as she knew, smiling good naturedly at Daria here and there, but flinging no accusations of _she really loves me!_ So far, it seemed Jane's hopes of a grand gesture of love had been thwarted.

Unbeknownst to Daria, Trent had come surprisingly close to causing a jaw to drop, with the best tool for mischief: the truth. When a friend of Tom's had attempted to engage him in conversation, asking, "So what's your relation to the bride?", Trent very nearly deadpanned the first response that came to mind: "I'm in love with her."

Whilst listening to Jane underhandedly insult her new friend's taste in art, Trent rolled his dark eyes to glance at Daria, meeting her gaze. A mournful smile curled his lips, and Daria determined he was in as much agony as her, for similar or different reasons. The latter or the former, it was difficult to say. The short moment of polite locking of eyes came and went, and the former lovers found they could not break away. What passed between them? It was impossible to say. Both sported walls so very high, at this grand occasion, not even they could penetrate to see the truth in each other. Not across the table, at any rate.

A call over the loudspeakers broke their locked gazes, inspiring a look of what could be likened to surprised terror on Trent's face. "The AMAZING Trent Lane!" boomed the lead singer of the band. "We know you're out in the audience, man," he said excitedly, pointing directly at Trent. "Will you come up here and show us how it's done?"

Seeming somewhat panicked and utterly caught off guard, Trent made a gesture to wave the kid off, rather pleadingly, in Daria's opinion. But the youth would not be spurned, and insisted again, "Oh come on! You're only at a wedding with Trent Lane once, right?" The crowd whooped in slightly inebriated support, cheering for Trent to go up.

Defeated, Trent reluctantly rose from his chair, making his way slowly with that long-legged gait to the stage.

"Um...what do you want to play?" he asked, once standing next to the young lead singer. The kid looked as though he would keel over from excitement at any moment, sharing the same stage with the legend of a musician.

"How about a classic? Back to Mystik Spiral's roots."

Trent raised his eyebrows. "You know _Icebox_ _Woman_?"

The kid momentarily looked utterly confused, before recovering his stage presence. "No, man. I mean _Quiet Girl_."

Visibly, Trent greened at the gills at the suggestion, even feeling dizzy on stage at the thought of playing _that song _at Daria's wedding party. Daria's wedding party, in which he was _not_ the groom. Blue eyes wide, Jane looked from brother to best friend, seeing both of them appearing on the verge of physical illness. "Do _Old Man DeMartino!_" she shouted at the top of her lungs, cupping her hands around her mouth, hoping to get the crowd riled for a different, more lighthearted ballad of their poor crazed history teacher from Lawndale High.

But it would not be heard of. Most of the crowd had no clue of the actual history of Quiet Girl, only remembering their own personal memories of the tune, singing it to a sweetheart on a summer drive with the windows down. The crowd began to chant "Quiet Girl! Quiet Girl! Quiet Girl!!"

Trent ran nervous fingers through his hair, as Daria watched as one cannot pull their gaze from a train wreck: utterly horrified. "Alright," he finally submitted, somewhat dejectedly.

With a delighted smile, the lead singer handed Trent his acoustic guitar, picking up a stand-by electric, throwing the strap over his shoulder. Trent pulled up a chair, slinging the guitar over his knee, and tested the tune of the strings. As he made minor adjustments, tinkering with the knobs, both Jane and Daria recognized him as stalling. With a deep sigh, Trent finally said, "Uh...you know. This is Quiet Girl."

Without further ado, Trent launched into the intro of an unplugged version of the song, fingers dancing across the neck of the guitar. He added extra flourishes, complicated picking, and his young accompanist on electric soon found he could not keep up with his god. It was no matter, for the youth seemed content to stand and watch in awe, as Trent's voice rose from the melodious notes.

_You've built your own personal cage_

_For your smiles and your laughter_

_Your love and your rage_

_You can't get out_

_I can't get in..._

Daria found her own head spinning, listening to this song in its current version. She remembered so many years ago, that fateful night, the way Trent's voice had soared so joyously above the crowd of the Zon. And tonight it was no less beautiful, but the timbre had changed distinctively. Every note held a story of sorrow, a struggle to have won the Quiet Girl, and defeat. Her bars proved too thick, the lock rusted; she could not get out, he could not get in. During the last thirty seconds of the song, Daria could stand no more; she vacated her seat and retreated from the uncomfortable throng of people.

Of the huge crowd, seemingly only three noticed Daria's absence. Trent watched her flee from his bird's eye view up on stage, and Jane too noted her pained retreat. And the last, was the groom-to-be himself, curiosity having been piqued from afar at the chanting of "Quiet Girl! Quiet Girl!" He meandered over in time to see Trent reluctantly take the stage, and watched as his fiancé ran. He thought to go comfort her, but realizing she would only reject him anyway, decided to let her retreat in solitude. Much to his chagrin, he knew it was the way she preferred it.

After the song, Trent retreated from the stage, having pleased the large crowd. It was a little like an Aztec sacrifice, cutting out his own heart on the altar for the amusement of others. As he approached Jane, she leaned in to whisper in Trent's ear, "She went that way," pointing him in the direction of Daria's withdrawal. He paused to peer at Jane suspiciously, but there was no mischievous light in her eyes now. She knew that something had been bruised tonight, possibly even broken. "Either you go or I go," she said quietly. "I'm giving you first chance."

He shouldn't go, thought Trent. It wasn't his place. Not anymore. If anyone's, it was Tom's...he glanced over across the lawn at the groom, to see him happily conversing with his Bromwell cronies. His animated conversation wafted towards them, _"It's an easy mistake to make, but actually Dostoyevsky..." _Feeling as though he were a reluctant actor in a badly scripted play, Trent nodded to Jane, and slipped off to find Daria. Maybe before the night was out, after getting his heart cut out fresh and new, he could get slapped too...

**OOOOOOO**

"I didn't want to do it," he pleaded quietly. After wandering through seemingly endless garden paths, Trent found Daria standing on a bridge, overlooking a creek running to the lake. Moonlight glittered on the trickling water, a steady tinkling that was soothing as it was constant.

"I know," Daria replied, voice croaky. It was obvious that she had been crying, but strangely, she felt no conviction to hide it.

"Oh, Daria..." Trent ascended the bridge, and reached out to hold her, feeling the urge to comfort her, even though he too wished he could be coddled. But she shied away, taking a step back. It did not take long for him to get the idea, and he hung back, holding hands up in a symbol of retreat.

Daria went to lean against the railing, staring down at the silvery water. Wordlessly, Trent joined her, unsure of what to do. _What am I doing_, thought Daria. Is this what I want? Do I ever really know what I want? How did she get there, up to that very moment, with a ring from Tom on her finger? And why wasn't Tom there instead of Trent, trying to comfort her? She thought back on the past. How after she and Trent's last fallout, Tom had seen his chance, swooped down to fill that lonely hole Trent's vacancy left behind. They had dated, then more than dated, and then Tom asked her to marry him...she'd said yes. Tom loved her, and she was lonely, and...God, Trent was right. Trent was right like he usually was about such intuitive matters of the human psyche, particularly hers.

Tom was safe. Tom was safe as water-wings and cushy-cushy stuffed animals. She knew him, knew how to handle him...knew that things would never get out of hand with him. That their passion would never get the better of them, that their love would never cut them deep as scalpels with a surgical agenda. Tom did not burn, he warmed...was that something she was willing to settle for? But wasn't that how all couples ended up in the end anyway, no matter how much they loved each other? Bored and lukewarm?

What _happened _to her? What about her ideals? She felt tired, she realized. Very tired. And she kind of just wanted a warm safe place to curl up and hide...was Tom that place? Or was she really _really _lying to herself all along?

And what of her independence? Her freedom kick? Sacrificing nothing, staying free to do exactly as she pleased?

Well, she would have plenty of _that_. Tom would hardly ever be home, constantly out on business trips. She would be alone...most of the time.

"Why are you here?" Daria asked quietly, finally breaking the silence of the quiet night. "How _can_ you be here?"

"Um...Janey..."

"Coerced you."

"Yes."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

Trent stood quietly, listening to the trickle of the stream. There were no sounds more perfect than nature's own creations, he mused. All else was merely imitation. "'Course it hurts," he finally grumbled. "But maybe I was hoping..." He couldn't bring himself to say it. Hoping what, Trent? To break up the wedding? That the mere sight of him would remind her she loved _him _and they would ride off into the sunset?

A small sound escaped Daria, and Trent realized it was a laugh. It was harsh, like the sound of glass ground against asphalt under a booted foot. "Hoping what?" she asked, words filled to the brim with untold sorrow. "That I would finally come to my senses?"

Trent found himself struck speechless by the bitter taste of her words. It lingered in his mouth, curled his tongue, thick and rancid and real. Daria turned to face Trent, and even with the bloodshot eyes of many tears shed, she was heartbreakingly beautiful to him, standing there on the Japanese bridge in the moonlight. Daria shook her head, to herself, at herself. "It's a bit too late for that now." She'd made her bed, and she would lay in it, she decided. It was too late to turn back at this point.

And with that, she turned on her heel and ran down the path towards the house. Trent watched her slight form recede and fade into the shadows of the night, and at that moment, could have sworn that just a ghost of the woman he'd known had stood there before him, and slipped away before his very eyes.

He too felt tired. Tired of fighting, tired of losing. He would attend the wedding tomorrow, watch the love of his life be joined in holy matrimony to a man she didn't love quite enough to marry...and then he would lock himself away in his house for a _very_ long time. Wallow in his misery, and refuse to deal with anyone. Refuse interviews, TV, press conferences, concerts, benefits, and a million other inane tricks of the trade he could be finagled into by everyone who wanted a piece of him. Reclusion sounded good, because more and more lately, he was growing so _sick _of his fellow humanity. Without her...he failed to see the point.

Hope had kept him going for so long, even on their off periods. He always felt that _someday _he would see her again, would get one more chance...but this was the end of the line. The big finish, and maybe he was a rock god, but it didn't seem he would be the hero in the end who got the girl.

Life can be so _utterly _disappointing.


	31. Last Stand

_**A/N: pantomime lyrics belong to the talented Mr. Brandon Boyd of Incubus**_

**31. Last Stand**

Words were an enigma that filled Daria and Trent's relationship. They declared love, defined lines, created lies...stretched a thin veneer over the reality they lived in. In Trent's dream, there were no words. No pretenses, no distractions. Only he and Daria, alone in the darkness, but not afraid. _In my fantasy, I'm a pantomime. I'll just move my hands, I promise you will see what I mean..._

Trent woke in a cold sweat, the vivid memory of Daria's hands on his body, and his lips on her skin haunting him behind his eyes. Quietly, he rolled out of the bed he and Jane shared for the night, going to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face.

Daria was about to make the biggest mistake of her life. Could he really just stand by, and let her do it? Let her jump off the cliff without one last grab to pull her back from the edge? Maybe she'd acted cold towards him last night...but deep down, he knew he couldn't quite give up yet. Maybe she'd pushed him away, but that still didn't mean secretly she wasn't hoping for someone to save her. It was a bit twisted, Trent knew, but still, quite possibly it was accurate.

**OOOOOOOO**

Dressed in his formal attire, Trent wandered the halls of the Sloane summer house, knowing that nearby Daria prepared for her date down the aisle. Or perhaps, he theorized, it was more likely that a pack of Katherine's cronies assaulted her with makeup and hair pins and flowers. The sound of voices coming from the depths of a room nearby caused him to pause and listen. He recognized one of the voices as belonging to Helen. "Oh, what a day, Daria! It's ok to be nervous, it's perfectly natural."

Daria answered something, but she spoke too softly to make out.

"Alright, if you want, sweetie."

Soon Helen clacked out of the room in high heeled shoes, followed by Katherine, and three minions Trent did not know. Heart in his throat, barely able to believe he was about to follow through with this crazy plan, Trent took a deep breath and slipped into the room. What would he say? What could be said, at this point? He scanned the chamber to ensure all had vacated, and his gaze settled upon a sight so beautiful he could not tear his eyes away, despite the near crippling ache that gripped his heart.

Daria sat before the window, solemnly staring out at the bustle down below. Her hair was swept away from her face in an arc that ended in white flowers behind her ears, and a waterfall of soft chestnut whorls cascaded down her back. The dress was strapless, tight across her breasts and fitted to her torso, boning leading down to a skirt that spread about her in a sea of white satin. A diamond necklace glittered around her slender neck, the stones so bright they nearly blinded in the pure morning light.

It was only when Trent closed the door, turning the lock, did Daria look up from her brown study. She expected to find her mother, or Tom's, disregarding her request to be left alone to barrage her with one last lecture before she walked down the aisle. It was much to her surprise, and even alarm, that she found Trent standing there by the door instead. He looked the part of the broody rock deity, dressed all in black, accented by the silver rings in his ears, upon his fingers, skull cufflinks and a wallet chain. But as always it was his eyes that held her attention; the look he fixed upon her was such a mix of love and longing, confusion and pain, that it cut her straight to the core.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, though her tone was less than convincing. Slowly she stood from her window seat, skirts rustling and swinging about her as she walked to the middle of the room. She felt as though she were the eye of a white satin storm.

"Neither should you," he retorted, going to meet her. They stood in such stark contrast, but a also a true yin and yang. There was a bit of each other living inside them, whether they liked it or not.

Daria lifted a hand to massage her temple, hoping to keep the migraine at bay that had thrummed threateningly within her skull all morning, waiting for the opportune moment to come to full bloom. She'd taken her last rash pill that morning, and hoped it would hold out. "Trent, please..." she pleaded. Sarcasm escaped her; she was at the end of her rope. All she wanted was to get this over with, without anymore crises of conscience or heart.

Trent's long fingers encircled her wrist, pulling her closer. "I think you're making a mistake, Daria, that you will regret for the rest of your life. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Perhaps Trent held her wrist, but in truth he could have held her in place with only his gaze. Those piercing dark eyes stared down at her, implored her to make, at least what was in his eyes, the right decision.

Daria couldn't deny that the whole situation smacked of a certain masochism. But perhaps less glamorously, and more truthfully, Daria felt that at that point, there wasn't anything else to do. She'd allowed it to go so far... She remembered warning herself, when she and Tom became a couple beyond dating. _This won't end well. _

_But what did it really matter at this point_, the devil on her shoulder had replied. Then the question popped...and for the first time in her life, Daria felt the true weight of human loneliness upon her shoulders. Most others would run from that monster for all their lives, clinging to friends and family to keep the darkness at bay. But Daria had embraced it, all her life, holding it close so it couldn't hurt her, couldn't scare her...life couldn't disappoint her, if she already knew its ugliest little secrets. But it was only a matter of time: loneliness catches up with everyone eventually.

Being thirty years old and seemingly having already pushed Trent out of her life forever, what did she have to lose? Tom was a good man, and he loved her so much...and she even loved him too, in a way. It didn't have to be considered a mistake at all, she reasoned. It could just be chalked to real life.

So why, with Trent standing here again, did she feel it was all just a masterfully constructed lie? She remembered the way he'd slipped her engagement ring off her finger that December night, so brazenly, and set it on the table. Walking out early the next morning, Daria had very nearly forgotten to put it back on. After a night with Trent, she'd nearly forgotten the other life she'd fabricated for herself.

Dejectedly, Daria answered, but could not look Trent in the eye as she said, "Maybe I love him."

Releasing her wrist, Trent slid his fingers against her jaw, turning Daria's eyes back to his. "If this was about love, you would be marrying me."

"Now you've got me. It's really been about fast cars and bottomless bank accounts all along."

There she went, thought Trent. Defending herself with those words again, hiding behind deceptive, misleading words. Maybe it was only sarcasm, but it was brandishing a shield all the same. He could think of one thing that could guarantee the truth came from those lips. Not a semblance, not a version, but a verity neither of them could deny.

"If _that _was what you wanted, you would _still _pick me."

Daria watched wide eyed, as seconds seemed to pass at less than a snail's crawl. Trent leaned down towards her, long fingers laced in her hair. As though one infidelity wasn't bad enough, he was going to kiss her, on her wedding day. Her hands went to his chest, as though she meant to push his away, hold him at bay. She would have liked to say she couldn't stop him, but it was worse than that. Much worse: she didn't want to. His lips touched hers and her eyes closed, resigned to the blissful oblivion his kiss offered. It would be their very last: it had to be.

As he pulled away, Daria's fingers clenched and unclenched in the fabric of his shirt. How dare he remind her of _that? _Every time she almost convinced herself she couldn't remember his touch, didn't crave looking into those soulful eyes, somehow he was there again to remind her. "You've always been so strong," he whispered, cupping the side of her face in his hand. "But everyone loses themselves every once in a while. You came for me, when I did. Let me do the same for you. Come with me."

Eyes wide, holding back tears that burned, Daria shook her head no. "I can't." She couldn't, right? She'd made a commitment. A big one. She was so good at running from things that frightened her...for once she would stay, and face the monster she'd created. So what if running is usually the best self defense?

"You mean you won't."

Standing on tiptoe, Daria kissed Trent's cheek, and he felt her tremble as she whispered, "I'm sorry things turned out this way. But it's too late."

So this was it. The conclusion. The end. _Le Fin. _Up until that very moment, it had always seemed there would be another chance for redemption. He shook his head in disbelief, slowly stepping away from Daria. His fingertips slid from her hand, retreating until the contact of skin against skin broke; so much more than mere molecules of air stood between them.

Daria watched him go to the door, hands pressed against her mouth, keeping the tears at bay. Knob clasped in his hand, Trent paused, and turned to look back to her over his narrow shoulder. "You think it's the end, Daria. But it's never over, until you die." Their eyes met across the room, and something like an electrical shock hit Daria, directly in the chest; she knew those mournful dark eyes would haunt her for the rest of her days.

**OOOOOOO**

Love is a strange and terrible force of nature. Utterly infuriating, absolutely terrifying, it is far more powerful than what it's given credit for. Movies lie about it, science cannot explain it, math cannot define it. Yet, next to fear, it is the emotion that most molds our characters, influences our actions. Entire economies ride on love; for why else do most people work, but to bring a good life to their families? And despite this importance, it is difficult to near impossible to balance. A child with too little can become a frightened recluse, and with too much, a conceited narcissist. In the attempt to capture it, people kill for it, fight wars for it, try to buy it, only to have it slip through their fingers. It is illusive as air, and comes in too many forms to count.

It was love that brought the Sloane and Morgandorffer families together, from all over the United States and Canada. They filled the expertly kempt lawn in two long wide columns, filling more than a hundred white lawn chairs. They twittered excitedly, eagerly anticipating the ceremony and the party to come, admiring the immense floral decorations that spanned the aisle and the altar. _What a splendid match those two make_, they gossiped. _Both are __**so**__ successful. They'll be happy together. How many children do you think they'll have? Well, you know, Daria's getting a bit past ripe for that, they better start fast!_

The orchestra began the prelude, and all heads turned, eager to watch the procession. First came the flower girl, sweet little Tabitha, Tom's niece. She toddled on the unsure but fast short legs of a young child, tossing flowers, and running out of petals in her basket halfway down the aisle. Then came Jane, the maid of honor, mostly disguising her distaste for her Bromwellite escort, but failing just a little at appearing entirely pleased to be there. Then came Quinn as a bridesmaid, turning heads as usual, and savoring every minute of it. Two more bridesmaids followed, Elsie and two of Tom's cousins to fill space, as Tom's mother had put it. _What would people think, with only Jane and Quinn up at the front?_

With no more ado, the orchestra burst forth into the wedding march, well practiced fingers and bows pulling a lovely rendition from their instruments. They played...and played, like good soldiers following orders, until worried expressions and bewildered tittering filled the audience. Everyone was out and ready, it seemed.

Everyone, but the bride.

All eyes turned back to a tuxedoed Jake as he walked out to the beginning of the isle, a bewildered expression upon his face. As they often did in times of crisis, his eyes trained upon Helen, hands up in an obvious gesture of confusion. "Has anyone seen Daria?"

A near simultaneous gasp of unexpected scandal reverberated throughout the crowd. Where had she gone? Surely there'd been a mistake! Only one man in the entire congregation seemed to take the news without surprise. That man was the very groom: Tom Sloane.

**OOOOOOO**

Over the years, Daria Morgandorffer had learned that love was something she didn't want to live without. Strangely enough, this conclusion caused her to do several incongruous things throughout the course of her life: drive away the very love of her life, for fear of his love changing her; agree to an engagement with a man who she loved, but not quite enough to be truly happy with; and wait till the very last minute to run out on a very large and _very _expensive wedding ceremony, leaving her groom-to-be alone at the altar to wonder why she'd decided not to be given away by her father to him, several hours earlier that day.

So where did that leave her? At the present moment, it left her standing in a very familiar pair of knee-height boots, arms crossed, staring at the now sagging house that had been her greatest salvation in the suburban hellhole that was Lawndale. Perhaps her own home held its memories, and was now filled by another married couple with 2.5 children, wading through suburban life, maybe even drowning in it. But it was _here_, at the Lane residence, where she'd lived her favorite moments in her young life. Memories of Jane, Trent, and the way things used to be, flooded her mind in a merciless yet welcome barrage of emotion. It somehow seemed fitting to come here at what she sensed to be the end of a stage of her life, to return to where it all began.

The urge to go inside struck Daria, and she found herself walking forward, the blades of the tall grass on either side of the walkway brushing her legs. When was the last time Vincent and Amanda had been here, she wondered? With the children gone, had they finally abandoned the house for good? Trying the door, she found it unlocked, and pushed inside. The room was dim with dust floating in the air, and smelled heavily of must.

In something of a daze, perhaps shell-shocked in a way, Daria wandered the building. First the living room, past the couch where she and Jane had shared so many nights watching Sick Sad World, scarfing pizza. Those nights had been important to her. So important; at times they were all that kept her sane.

There was the kitchen, with considerably more cobwebs now. Someone had stolen the microwave. But the kitchen table and chairs were still there, the 60s formica tabletop perhaps too dilapidated to bother with. She'd sat at that table writing essays of her inner angst, whilst Jane sculpted manifestations of her own nearby. She'd cleaned Trent's tattoo at that table. The first time she'd been courageous enough to touch his bare skin, aside from his hand. Could she have but known then the saga that would await them.

Feet moving of their own accord, she headed up the stairs next, going into Jane's room. The bed was still there, and even some odd art supplies Jane had left behind, long ago. She supposed thieves of Lawndale wouldn't know what to do with those; the main extent of artistic endeavor outside of Miss DeFoe's class was usually graffiti art. She poked at the mattress, just to see if it still felt the same. How many hours did she sit there, writing in her journal or just staring off into space while Jane created something on her canvas? How often did Daria come over with no purpose in mind but to simply be near the strength of Jane's soul? A like mind, her only companion for so long. She sometimes wondered, if there had been no Jane, if maybe she would have just broken down and tried to fit in. It didn't seem terribly likely, but the possibility of the horror crossed her mind from time to time.

Then came the room she'd saved for last. A room she'd at first viewed with such nervous fear and curiosity. The room where Trent slept, where he lived and played. That dark cavern that seemed to hold such forbidden secrets, until he'd invited her in. It was on _that _bed that he'd held her, comforted her, first made love to her...it seemed so ridiculous, for a room so small to hold such monumentally significant occurrences of their lives.

_Daria Morgandorffer, what have you done, _she asked herself, toeing an abandoned threadbare olive t-shirt with the toe of her boot. Many things. Some of which she'd intended, and some that she'd picked up along the way. She had loved, and she had spurned love, to accomplish the things she wanted. Autonomy, she recalled wanting, more than anything in life. Success as a writer as well. She'd even nearly married the heir to the formidable Sloane fortune...though wealth and power had never been her goals. So now that she had done all these things, it seemed Daria now looked ahead to a future alone, with many books published in her name, and _many _cats to keep her company. Still, had she _not _accomplished these things, had she merely submitted to love as the epitome of life's perfection, without grasping for something more completely _hers_...she would have never forgiven herself. Perhaps things even played out the way they _had _to. She'd made mistakes along the way, but they could not be changed now. For the first time in a long time, Daria felt as though she'd done something right. That she wasn't so lost as she thought after all, and the strength she needed to survive as the person she truly was had never left. It lay hidden inside all along, waiting to be tapped once again.

"So you decided to come back too," said a familiar voice, startling Daria out of her reverie. Eyes wide, completely taken unawares, Daria turned to find Trent leaning against the door. He was still dressed in his black attire, minus the dress jacket. He had not been able to stay after all for the wedding ceremony; their interlude beforehand simply cut him too deeply. He'd missed the drama, and opportunity for personal vindication, when Daria did not come out to walk down the aisle. "Something tells me I'm not looking at the new Mrs. Tom Sloane..."

"Not unless another woman took my place at the altar after I ran away, and she's standing right behind me..." said Daria, warily looking over her shoulder.

That familiar cough-laugh caused the corners of Daria's mouth to curl up, even though there wasn't really much to smile about that day. Feeling a bit lightheaded, she went to sit on the edge of Trent's bed. He soon joined her, looking around the room. "Man. Lots of memories in here," he said absently, almost talking to himself.

"Yeah. I was just thinking the same thing...among other things."

Trent's lips pursed with curiosity. "Like what?" he dared asked, certain that after the day Daria had had, her head was filled with a million-and-one thoughts she probably wouldn't care to share.

So it was much to his surprise when she gave him a straight answer, nearly immediately. "I was contemplating my impending life as the old woman alone in her house with ten million cats."

Spying her hand resting on the bed, Trent reached out to take it, wrapping his long fingers around her small hand. "You don't have to be alone, Daria, if you don't want to be."

A small, tragic smile formed upon her lips. "You're saying?"

"Just my usual," he confessed, laying back on the bed. Once again to his surprise, she responded to his inviting tug, laying down shoulder to shoulder with him. Her hair fanned out, free of flowers but still full of loose curls, tickling his cheek. "I guess I'm hoping you'll maybe take me up on it someday. We're getting _kind of _old, you know," he said with a smile.

Daria bit her lip, fighting back a fresh welling of tears, but not for the reasons Trent imagined. "How can you keep offering to take me back, after all the times I've run away from you?"

Trent smiled then, and it was bright, beautiful, and perfectly heartbreaking. "I guess you run, but you always kiss me so sweetly once I catch up to you. Even on your wedding day. How can I _not_ keep offering?"

Daria rolled to prop herself up on one elbow, looking down at Trent. That warm smile struck her to the core, thawing things inside that she'd feared would remain frozen forever more. Maybe it was a bit more musty than Trent remembered, but there was something about lying on _that _bed at that moment which felt so very right to him. "And if I say yes? What then?"

"Whatever you want," he easily replied, reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. That small touch caused her to close her eyes, lean against his hand.

"No," she answered, surprisingly forcefully, and Trent's expression fell. So, nothing was really changing after all, it seemed. "We've been doing this completely on my terms for a long time now," she then explained. "What do _you _want?"

Eyebrows raised, Trent studied Daria carefully, half convinced this was a cruel trick. What did he want? Did she really want to know? As Daria stared down at him, with earnest but quick coffee brown eyes, he decided it more than seemed so. "Alright," he answered, perhaps a bit cautiously, like a dog who had been kicked a few times for the same trick, and stood unsure of what to expect. "What I really want, is for us to be together. I mean, really together. No more _just_ _visiting_. We don't have to get married or anything...you've probably had enough of that for a while...but I _really _enjoy waking up to your face every morning."

Daria stared down at him, considering his offer. This was it. This was her chance to be with Trent, to really be with him, without feeling that she'd sacrificed a little part of herself somewhere along the line to follow love. Could she really do it? Agree to it, without botching their attempt to be happy together in the near future?

She considered for so long, Trent felt certain she would say no. So it was much to his surprise and delight, when she agreed, "Alright. But this probably doesn't mean we're going to live happily ever after, you know," she teased with a smirk.

"No such thing," stated Trent, corner of his mouth twitching. Daria soon found herself on her back, Trent leaning over her with a beaming smile. "So, where will we go?" She could not immediately answer, for his lips slid over hers in a tantalizing kiss, completely stealing all her attention for as long as he touched her.

"Somewhere not New York," she answered breathlessly, after he drew away.

"Mmm. And somewhere not L.A."

"A new beginning."

"It doesn't end until we're dead."

"Think we can pull it off this time?"

"Who knows? But we can try."

The lovers smiled at each other, and the near comedic circumstance of their union. Four hours away, two families still wondered with much bewilderment what had happened to the bride. Where had she disappeared to? Why did she go? None of them could have guessed that she'd run away back to Lawndale, and lay kissing the man she truly loved, in the crumbling house where the epic journey had begun, so many years ago.


	32. Epilogue

**Epilogue:** **5 Years Later**

"Mommy, Mommy!"

The small child raced down the hall, a riot of soft brown hair trailing behind her. Her little legs attempted to move faster than a speed they were truly capable in their great excitement, causing the child to barrel into slender jean-clad legs.

"Whoa there, young one," said Daria, helping the child to her feet. "Save your energy, it comes with a lifetime limit, you know."

The child's large head rocked up too look at Daria, brown eyes gone wide and wondering. "Really?" she asked, sincere in the way only small children can be.

"Well...sort of."

"Daria, you'll scare her," scolded Quinn, scooping up her squirming toddler, walking towards the kitchen. Making an impish face, Olivia shook her head vigorously over Quinns shoulder, paying her favorite aunt a wide grin.

With a secret smile, thinking that her plans for corrupting this child were going swimmingly already, Daria picked up the shopping bags she and Quinn had dragged in the door.

"Quinn! Daria! You're back. How was Pike's Place?" Helen asked, coddling an infant on her shoulder, another of Quinn's brood. At a mere five months old, Isabelle was content to rest on Helen's shoulder, gumming her fist, watching the sudden commotion in the kitchen with wide blue eyes.

"It was like, _totally_ weird. They _really _throw the fish at you there!" exclaimed Quinn with a smile, setting down Olivia and taking the bags from Daria. She pulled out their "catch of the day", a fresh cut of halibut, along with other ingredients for the feast to come.

"They _throw _the fish!?" exclaimed Jake from the other room. "EWW!"

"Oh, let me help you, dear," said Helen, ignoring Jake's outburst and handing Daria the baby. She went to assist her youngest daughter in preparing the evening meal. Thanksgiving wasn't until tomorrow, and _already _Daria found herself pushed out of her own kitchen...she couldn't say she really minded. After retirement, Helen still found she couldn't quite relax, directing her energies and new-found free time to cooking and gardening. Needless to say, her repertoire had finally expanded past lasagna, much to Jake's delight.

Daria accepted the baby with some trepidation, but Helen appeared to give her little choice in the matter. She looked down at this little being, which at least at this point, was a pint sized package of gurgles and dirty diapers. In a way Daria found those bright blue eyes staring up at her with such undivided interest unnerving; it was not the child herself, but the knowledge that she held something so very fragile, so very _pure _in her arms. A tiny person, as of yet untouched by the world around her, the people in it, the environment and her parents' own personal baggage.

Standing there in the kitchen, Daria contemplated the terrifying gravity of child rearing. It could be _so easy _to completely botch, yet every parent simply must do the best they can, to give a child the best chance possible at a good life. Children need so much attention, so much love...you have to give them more love than what they know what to do with. It will drive them crazy, and they'll walk away smug, knowing you need them but that they are entitled to the right to leave, to do what ever it is they want to do...are destined to do. And you have to let them go, knowing that that was the very reason why you went through everything you did for them. All the pain, love, discipline, crises, money, parent/teacher conferences, doctor's appointments...everything would lead up to _that_ moment. That heartbreakingly beautiful moment when you knew you had to let them go.

As always, when Daria mused on the true weight of the responsibility Quinn had taken on (not once, but twice!) with such seemingly natural ease, she thought to herself the highly eloquent and intelligent expression of: _holy shit! _

As though she could sense Daria's thoughts, and decided such existentialism did not interest her, Isabel gave a wide yawn and settled against Daria's breast, intent on a nap. With that attitude and a shock of red hair that just brushed her forehead, Daria knew which sister _this _one took after...well, maybe it was too early to tell.

"You want me to take her?" Daria looked up to find Trent standing nearby, a warm smile curling the corners of his lips. He could see the expression akin to mystified panic written across Daria's features, as it usually was with young Isabella in her charge. It was amusing, and surprisingly touching in a way. The way she seemed so certain she would drop this child on its head, when by the extreme care she took with the precious bundle, everyone knew that Daria's arms were probably the safest of all in the apartment.

"Sure," agreed Daria, handing Quinn's baby over to uncle Trent. Accustomed to the game of pass the baby, Isabella quickly settled into the narrow chest of her new acquisition, three saliva-slathered fingers nearly lost to oblivion in a gaping toothless maw. Seemingly her utter opposite, perfectly at ease with the baby, Trent slowly turned on his heel, making his way to the living room. Daria watched his retreating form with loving wonder; in so many ways, he was so much braver than her.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

"Can't sleep?" asked Trent, joining Daria at the window. She stood with her arms crossed, watching a November shower stream down the glass in sheets and rivulets.

"No," she answered honestly, leaning back into him.

Life had been good to them, throwing no more _major _curveballs since the somewhat climatic episode in their relationship, at what was to be Tom and Daria's wedding, but never realized. With a new devotion, the couple had decided to relocate to Seattle, a city that suited their bohemian tastes. He was able to continue with his music, and she with her writing. Though they never married, both had come to consider themselves husband and wife, respectively, in the ways that mattered. Five years of living together had left neither of them with any major grievances to speak of yet, but Daria kept waiting for that damned shoe to drop.

And she'd been afraid, _so _afraid, that a shoe large enough to smash them both would fall from the sky, when she'd broken the news to him, not but two weeks ago. In eight months, Daria was going to have a baby.

The thought absolutely petrified her.

"Are you worried about the baby?" asked Trent intuitively, soothing hands smoothing over her arms and shoulders before completely encircling her in a loving embrace.

"_Worried_ doesn't _quite_ capture the intensity of my apprehension."

She watched his silvered reflection in the dark window, and saw him nod with understanding. "Fair enough."

"Aren't you scared?"

"Sure," he answered, leaning his head atop hers. She felt engulfed by the man behind her, and found comfort in his warmth, his solidarity. "But I've got to admit, I'm also excited."

Mmm. Daria thought she might be more excited, if she weren't due to push a bowling ball through her birth canal in eight months...unless it was a cesarean, of course. Either way, there would be drugs involved. Oh yes, there would be drugs.

But it wasn't the pain that frightened her the most. It was all the things she saw when she looked into baby Isabella's crystalline blue eyes. All the responsibility, and all the opportunity for failure. Not just failure that affected herself or Trent, but the very _life _of another human being, that would begin so _innocently_, before their influence.

"I'm just afraid...I won't be a good mother. I don't anticipate a Medea complex or anything, but..." Daria felt the tremor of a laugh run through Trent's torso. "What?"

"Daria...you're the most capable woman I know. You'll make an excellent mother. Aren't you excited at all? Aren't you curious?"

Curious? Well...yes, there was a little tickle of warmth, deep inside. A small flame, waiting for fan and fuel. What would it be like, to have a little being growing inside her, one could say the physical manifestation of she and Trent's epic love? A little child that would love them, trust them implicitly...at least for a time. For a long time, if they did things right. Yes, of course she was curious. And even, yes, dare she admit? A little excited as well. But as always her thoughts tended to dwell on what could go wrong, as opposed to hope for the things that could go right.

"Yes, I'm curious," she admitted. "But this isn't a science experiment...it's very serious, and very real."

Once again, that telltale shudder of his body gave away Trent's laughter, along with the muscle tension of a cough. "Of course it's not an experiment. It's a new adventure. Yet another beginning."

Another beginning, mused Daria, studying Trent's reflection in the glass. Yes, it was. The creation of new life, the dawning of a fresh chapter in their respective life novel. As a writer, Daria was constantly dealing with beginnings and endings. They had to be catchy, profound, always. But in real life, an end could slip right into a beginning, without anyone ever noticing. They were everywhere, these cycles of renewal and decline. _It's not over until we're dead_, had said Trent, years ago. Even that was not exactly true. There would always be someone else to take up the story, add another chapter, take another step. It was a never-ending epic, this thing called life. It is when we become so absorbed in ourselves as individuals that we miss the fact that nothing really ever ends, in the way it never really begins.

But sometimes, we're lucky enough to catch a glance of this ongoing beauty, in the glimmer of a raindrop, the random kindness of a stranger, the perfection of a cool breeze rustling spring leaves, or the gentle sigh of a lover in moonlight. It's in everything, from the words we say to the people we love, and yet it would go on and on without us ever having been here.

Daria sank further back against Trent. A sigh escaped her lips as she gave him a slight but genuine smile, which he returned warmly in the reflection upon the window. At that moment, Daria felt it in two people brave enough to trust each other, standing barefooted in each others arms, watching a Pacific Northwest rain paint the window of their living room, looking ahead to an unknown future they dared hope would be worth living. If experience could be trusted, through all the laughter and all the pain, in the end it would be.

Always, it would be.

_Fin_

**A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who has tagged along for the ride on this story, and left feedback along the way! And also thanks for being patient with me...who knew this would actually be finished 2 years later? Without your urgings I probably would have abandoned it. Cheers!**


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